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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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Springfield, Mass. MILLER'S STUDIO. 486 Main Street. 



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O 



CLARA J. LOOMIS. 




SPRINGFIELD, MASS.. 
CYRUS W. ATWOOD. PUrXTEK 

1887. 



,L15 



Copyright, 1887. 
BY Clarissa E. Loomis. 



For Private Cimilation. 



$ o 

r H K M A N Y 

Frie;nds of fKe QjafBor 

<)F THESE PAGES, 

Q {|}otBer 

GRATEFULLY INSCRIBES 



H R K F^ C B . 



It is hai'dl}' necessary to introduce, with words 
of mine, tliese fugitive writings of my daughter 
to the notice of those of her friends who have 
requested their publication. Still I ought, in 
the very forefront, to state that it is not ^vith- 
out reluctance on my part that I consent to 
give a [>ermanent form to thoughts that wei'e 
never intended for ])ublicity. And I have 
yielded to the solicitations of many friends to do 
so, with hope that some heart may be strength- 
ened, some hands uplifted, some cross more 
easily carried after a }^)erusal of these pages. 
To the many and tried fiiends of my daughter 

I entrust this little book. 

C. E. LooMis. 



CON TK NTS 



VERSE. 

Page 

Letter to a Schoolmate 17 

Shadows .23 

The Whispek 27 

My Baby Brother 30 

Natures Voices 32 

The Power of Fashion 34 

The Vain Search 36 

My Past 40 

Work and Wait 43 

My Picture Gallery 44 

Charity 47 

My Vision 52 

Weary 58 

Alice 64 

To a Bird that Flew in at the Schoolkoom Window.. 69 

A Portrvit 71 

A Little Man 74 

Three Curls 77 

On the Sba 82 

To a Picture of Viruil's Sybil 85 

Lottie 87 

1* 



14 rONTENTSi. 

Sprin<4 89 

A Voice f kom thk Children 91 

Beautiful Hands 94 

Insane 96 

A Street Incident 103 

To Miss Nellie N 106 

Billy and 1 108 

The Teacher's Soliloquy — With Varuttions 110 

Little Irish Katie 112 

Annie 114 

A Temperance Tale 117 

A Memory 119 

Sunday Morning 124 

Willie on the Shining Shore 137 

On Receiving an Anonymous Gift 130 

On Watch Hili 183 

Thanksgiving Memories 135 

Christmas Carol — For n Child 137 

Thoughts on Watch Night 139 

Introductory for Santa Clais — For a Little Boy 143 

Charles Howard Warriner 144 

To My Friend Across the Way— Ow Her Wedding Day AiQ 

Lines to Mr. and Mrs. Charles C. Barrett 148 

The Silver Wedding 150 

Farewell to the Old Church 154 

My School Children 167 

In the Class Room 169 

Ella. ' 174 

The Fi^ower of thk Holy Spirit. . . : 176 

DuLCE Pro Mori 178 

A Sick Room Lesson 180 

A Tribute of Love 183 



CONTENTS. 15 

PiCTUKES 185 

"He that Comkokteth You" 188 

Easter 190 

The Cry of the Desolate 193 

' ' We All do Fade as a Leaf " 194 

My New Watch 190 

In Memory op Dog Tiger 198 

Bob— Written for a Boy 202 

"A Dream that was Not All a Dream" 204 

New Town Hall 206 

' ' He Opened Not His Mouth 211 

ELE^'ENTH Anniversary 221 

Watch Night 226 

A Prayer for the Poor 228 

A Church Member 231 

John's Letticr 245 

Christ Our Attraction 248 

A Word for the Pagan 264 

My Work 267 

Lang Syne 282 

A Glance at the Class Book 284 

The Twenty-first Anniversary — North MaUi Street Class, 

Trinity Church, Springfield 290 



PROSE;. 

Preface 11 

The Artist Gallery 20 

Life Pictures 59 

A Tale of the Winds 65 



16 CONTENTS. 

The Consequences of a Sixth Sense 99 

Thou Akt My God 121 

A Holiday 156 

Letter fkom Maktha's Vineyard 214 

Centennial Jottings 236 

Grandfather's IIoltse 251 

Sunday School Teaching for the Younger Scholars.. 273 



B-RIENDLY WORDS. 

To the Memory op Clara J. Loomis 295 

In Memoriam, Clara J. Loomis 297 

In Memoriam 300 



a> 



O/iYO 



I(ettet' to k Scl^oolrqate. 



Ah, well I remember the good times past, 
When behind the same desk we played, 

And the days and the weeks flew on .so fast 
That we prized not enough, I 'm afraid ; — 

How we frolicked and laughed, and, with task half 
learned, 

Reluctantly went to recite ; 
And then, with a frown we knew we had earned. 

Were told. "• Stay after school to-night I '' 

Perhaps you will say that 's a slight mistake. 

But that 's nothing new for me ; 
For slijis of the pen and slips of the tongue 

With school girls are customary. 

And those fugitive glances across the broad aisle 
That we cast when the master was out, 



18 LETTER TO A SCHOOLMATE. 

So sure we should n't be caught, all the while, 
Till we heard a sly step there-a-bout. 

Then the glowing descriptions of far away beans, 

That I gave to you and you to nie. 
Deceiving each other, — but every one knows 

That never a beau had we. 

But no ! I 'm mistaken again. I jierceive ; 

Only you, on the opposite side. 
Saw the best looking lad. I verily believe 

This fact you would now like to hide. 

And Sara, our mutual hatred of him 
Who the tough old Arithmetic made 

Is still quite as strong — though it may be a sin 
To liate a man just for his trade. 

0, the many wild scra])es that together we 've had 
'Neath good Mr. Barrows' gray eyes 

Were enough to make most any man mad. 
And such girls as we were not wise. 

And still we are scliool girls, — and still our young 
heads 

Are as brimful of nonsense as ever. 
Yes, still we are young, scarce noting the treads 

Of old Time, who all ties will sever. 



LETTER TO A SCHOOLMATE. 



19 



And now I Ve arrived at the foot of tlie page. — 

Excuse all mistakes that you see ; 
Remember 't is not from a wise old sage, 

But from your humble me. 

At the nge of fourteen years,— 1S56. 




Yl|e Srti^t G^kllei^y. 



During tlie week of the Fair, I visited the Artist Gal- 
lery connected with it, and saw many specimens of the 
Fine Arts, and propose to make this the subject of my 
composition. I gazed on beautiful landscapes ; some, 
copied from Nature; others, "creations of the mind." 
There were a number of heads, in most of which, the 
artists seemed to have studied to render every feature 
perfect. I stood before one a long time, studying the 
expression of the elegant eyes. It was " Beatrice Cenci, 
copied fi'om the original by Guido. " Who could but ad- 
mire a face so beautiful, so full of lively expression ? 
The slightly parted lips seemed ready to speak, and I fan- 
cied tlie tone would be one of melody, the words of love ; 
but no, the beautiful picture spoke only with the eyes. 

There was another scene that I loved to look upon. 
In it there were seven figures surrounding a low couch, 
on which lay a tiny babe ; their faces were lighted up 
with expressions of holy delight, and their hands up- 
raised in seeming wonder. It represented The Infant 



THE ARTIST OALLERY. 21 

Saviour in tlie mauger, and tliey who bent over him 
were tlie good old siie})herds. It was executed by 
Honthurst. 

Many other pictures struck my attention, but 1 lin- 
gered longest near these. 

As I stood there, surrounded by ^'gems of art," with 
bright eyes looking down upon me on every side, from 
the walls, I thought their authors must be almost in- 
spired. Surely, Genius is a strange, wonderful gift, that 
God has bestowed on a few of his creatures, and their 
works are treasures and blessings to the whole world. 

The Art of Painting may be justly styled the noblest 
art given to Man. The power to portray the passions of 
the human face in their lieauty or deformity ; to exhibit 
lifelike imitations of Nature, in her wildest and most 
romantic moods ; to represent vivid pictures of the im- 
agination upon canvas, is Genius of a high order ; and 
they who possess this great and noble gift, are, in one 
sense, lifted above their fellow-beings ; and a common 
mind, in the presence of Genius, feels its inferiority. 

To music, we sometimes listen with rapture, and for a 
time forget all else in the delicious strains that are poured 
into our very souls ; but when they cease, the memory of 
them lingers with us but a little while, and then, they 
are forgotten. Not so with a noble picture, in which 
every line glows with the spirit of the Artist. If we 
have any appreciation of the beautiful, the memory of 
such an one would not easily be defaced, and we should 



"22 THE ARTIST GALLERY. 

still view it with the mind's eye, when for years we had 
not beheld it in reality. 

'The PoeC's gift we honor. As we follow him from 
page to page, the beauty and meaning of his thoughts 
gradually are revealed to our minds ; but as our eyes fall 
upon the same scene spread upon canvas, the same story 
is told in a moment. There is Painting in Poetry, and 
there is Poetry in Painting. Though the two are inti- 
mately connected, Painting stands, yet unrivaled, above 
all other attainments of Man. 

1856. 



SllcldOAY^, 



0, I LOVE the silent shadows. 

That at evening flit around, 
Seeming like a host of phantoms 

Creeping o'er the moonlit ground. 
How they glide along the valley, 

Through the held, and by the wood I 
Here they come in friendly clusters. 

There is one in solitude. 

Now, methinks they 're holding council, 

And I list, but hear no tone ; 
Then I watch them wa-eathe together. 

While the trees above do moan. 
While the mystic shades are dancing 

On the moss beneath the tree, 
And I yield to dreamy visions, 

Then the angels come to me. 

Then a throng of heavenly seraphs 
From their home on high descend. 



24 SHADOWS. 

Breathing low. melodious music 
As they loving o'er me bend ; 

If they find me sighing, grieving. 
Murmuring 'gainst the Father's will, 

Of my lonely, thorny pathway, 

Low they whisjier: "Peace, he sfill." 

And I list their holy teachings, 

Uttered in my eager ear, 
By the sweet, angelic spirits, 

That I know are hovering near. 
Though I may not view their faces. 

Yet it is enough to feel 
That when worn and weary-hearted, 

Heavenly messengers will heal. 

Through the hazy mist of evening. 

When the moon has left the night, 
And the starlight dims and flickers, 

Then they wing their upward flight, 
Then I hear their fluttering garments. 

And the rushing of white wings, 
And my gentle, angel guardians 

Leave me, while the night-bird sings. 

Dies away their soothing music, 

Fade the shades that lie around, 
Now no voice disturbs the quiet, 



SHADOWS. 25 

Now the air echoes uo sound. 
Now the thill, tall, ghost-like shadows 

Cease their silent, evening play, 
And creep back into the forest, 

Where they hide the livelong day. 

Ever, when I 'm sad and lonely, 

To the lovely glen I go. 
And, reposing by the lakelet. 

Watch the shades wave to and fro. 
Then the olden dreams steal o'er me. 

And from out the "better land" 
Comes to soothe my troubled spirit, 

That seraphic, shining band. 

Therefore do I love the shadows 

As they softly come and fall 
In the vale and down the mountain, 

And upon my cliamber wall ; 
For with them the beings beauteous 

Of the upper sphere do come, 
Come to cheer the lonely-hearted. 

From their bright and blissful home. 

0, when I 've grown earth- weary. 

And the soul is sick with grief. 
There is nought that soothes the spirit 

Like the angels' sweet relief. 



26 



SHADOWS. 



Then the heart is filled with rapture,' 
While unto the soul is given, 

Sacred teachings, pure and holy, 

That come floating down from Heaven, 

February, 1S57 . 




¥lie Wl:\i,^f)ei\ 



A LOW, sweet note came floating 
On the fragrant summer breeze ; 

It wandered 'mong the flowers, 
And the gentle swaying trees. 

Then it nearer came and nearer, 
But I could not catch the word, 

For the voice was faint and timid, 
Yet the sweetest ever heard. 

It came with music laden ; 

And I bowed my head to hear, — 
But I lost the gentle murmur. 

Dying, ere it reached my ear. 

Then meth ought 't was but a fancy 
Of my drowsy brain. 



28 THE WHISPER. 

And while musing thus half -sleeping 
It came floating back again. 

Was it the brook's low ripple 
Meandering through the wood ? 

Or the twitter of a swallow 
Lulling her tender brood ? 

Again I hushed my breathing ! 

For I surely knew the tone, — 
And again 't was wafted by me ; — 

But so (|uickly had it flown, 

That it now seemed less familiar 
Than when first it wandered by, 

•'T was so very low and flute-like. 
That it seemed a simple sigli ! 

Then the softest of all echoes 
Bore that strangely tender strain 

Back unto my eager senses, — 
For I knew 't would come again. 

.A wild, wild thrill of rapture 

Ran through my trembling frame, 
For a presence was beside me 
That gently breathed my name. 



THE WHISPER. 



29 



And that soft, delicious whisper 
That was murmured uuto me — 

! that sweetest of all whispers 
Was — "Ego amo te! " 

December, 1857. 







}dy Bkby Si^otliei^. 



Ix a lonely, quiet valley, 

Where the waters wind and tlow ; 
Where the shadows sleep at evening, 

And the winds breathe sweet and low ; 

There ^s a little marble headstone, 

By a tiny, mossy grave,-— 
'Neath it, sleeps my baby brother ; 

O'er it, drooping willows wave. 

But a little while he lingered. 
Ere he weary grew of Earth. — 

And my l^eauteous. baby In-other 
Sleepetli now beneath the turf. 

And with sorrow I remember 

When his form, so fair and round. 

Lay within a little cofltiu. 

Shrouded for tlie cold, dark ground. 



MY BABY BE OTHER. 31 

Then they brought him to the valley. 

With a slow, reluctant tread, 
And with one more tearful gazing 

Laid him in his earthly bed. 

But my darling, only brother 

Is a holy angel now, — 
And my grieving heart is lightened, — 

Humbly to the rod I bow. 

There, he is a shining seraph. 
Standing by the great, white throne,— 

And I only sigh to join liim 

In the great All-Fatlier's home. 



185: 






X^tui'e'^ Voided. 



'T IS the peaceful hour of twilight, 
Every bird has sought its nest, 

Every creature ceased its labor, 
All tlie earth is hushed to rest. 

List ! I hear a swell of music. 
Floating on the still night air, 

From a voice, beneath the waters. 
Of your lakelet, glassy fair. 

"T is the strange, enchanting music 
Of a water-nymph or sprite, 

Calling forth her host of fairies 
In the harvest-moon's pale light. 

Yet, another sound of music 
Falls upon the listening ear ! 

Sweeter than the song of mermaids 
Is that voice so low and clear. 



MATURES VOICES. 33 

F)om till' bui'i'en, topmost brunches 

Of an aged aspen tree 
Come the liquid notes of gladness 

Of a mother-bird to me. 

Through the boughs the wind is moaning, 

Just above the nest so high, 
Wliile my soul receives the music 

Of the blackbird's lullaby. 

And from yonder open window, 

A cricket, on the mossy sill, 
Mingles its jieculiar chirping 

With the mournful whip-poor-will. 

They are Nature's untaught minstrels 

To their Maker rendering praise. 
Teaching w.s- a solemn lesson, 

In their sim})le, grateful lays ; 

That for our God -given existence, 

And the boon of Jesus' love, 
We, in gratitude, should praise Him, 

E'en as angels praise, above. 

Jdniiary, 1S58. 



^\q fowQt of S^k^liioii. 



Fashion 's a theme on every tongue, 

From poor man's cot to ricli man's dome, 

O'er all grades of men it holds a broad sway. 

The wise and the simple are eiiarmed with its lay ; 

Its mantle is cut for all classes to wear, 

The vicious and virtuous, the homely and fair. 

It sliields the head senseless, — the head, too, of 

sense, — 
In no station of life can we dodge its expense. 

When the virtuous are seen in new style of dress, 
Soon the vicious appear — their exterior no less 
In tlie height of '' tlie Fashion.'' In full robe 

and full train. 
Move this and move that, each in Fasliion the 

same. 
How can we distinguish the oiie from the other ? 
0, tell me, ye wise ones — the mystery uncover ! 



THE POWER OF FASHION. 35 

Such a power has Dame Fashion, mankind to 

allure. 
Unless you bow lowly, you 're neglected, he sure. 

But we've minds now to clothe, as bodies you see! 

If we can not dress both, which shall it be ? 

Shall we toil day and night ; and thus be con- 
trolled 

By this Empress of Fashion, this Goddess en- 
rolled ? 

Or shall we tirst store the Immortal with food; 

And in seeking for knowledge, thus learn to be 
good ? 

Which way shall we heed ? Our course we must 
mould I 

Reveal to us, wise ones ; this truth here unfold. 



9 "^"^ ^^-tl ('^ P 



? 



Vlie Yk{i\ gektcli. 



A mp:rry child, with hhie, sunny eyes, 
And delicate cheek, and golden hair. 

Was chasing the yellow-winged butterflies 
That swarmed the balmy and mild summer air, 

And a laugh of glee broke over his face. 
As he bounded away on the fruitless chase. 

The tiny, young feet scarce touched the ground. 
And his hands were upraised to grasj) the prey. 

As they flitted before him, and all around, 
Behind him. beside him, then quickly away. 

Yet he vainly struggled and sprang for the i)rize, 
They eluded him ever, those bright butterflies. 

Yet one more effort he '11 make for his aim, 
And with purpose undaunted again he starts ; 

Still useless the ett'ort — liis luck is tlie same : 
When just M'ithin reach, away it darts, 



THE VAIN SEARCH. '?'. 

His ringleted hair flies back on tlie wind, 
For his hat has blown ott', and is left behind. 

A few swift years, and the gleeful child 

Had changed to a gay, light-hearted youtli, — 

He forgot the sports that his boyhood beguiled. 
And had '"'put away childish things," in sooth. 

The pliantom Happiness now, he pursued, 
As it glided before him, so brilliant-hued. 

In the dim and distant Future it lay, 

The beautiful phantom he sought to clas}). 

But hard, and rugged, and rough was the way 
His feet must tread, ere the ])rize he grasp I 

Yet his hope was bright, for his Ijuoyant heart ' 
Scarce ever had known Disappointment's smart. 

But when the fair vision seemed almost his own, 
His beautiful dream of Happiness, won, 

And his step 'gan to quicken — behold it had flown, 
Was as distant as when the chase begun, — 

And his heart sank down on the weary road, 
For " hope deferred " is a grievous load. 

A span, a little space of time. 

And the hopeful youth a man was grown. 
E'en now he seemed on life's decline, 



38 THE VAIN SEARCH. 

For manhood's vigor and strengtli had flown. 
Yet earthly happiness still he souglit, 

Though the search with pain fnl toil was fraufjht. 

An old man mused on the misty Past, — 
And thouglit of tlie early race he run : 

His moments now are flitting fast, 

His earthly j)ilgrimage well-nigh done. 

But liis hopes long since were raised on high, 
To Him wlio dwells beyond the sky. 

As he sat in the summer sunlight warm. 

Where the zephyrs played with liis silvery hair, 
On the mossy earth knelt the aged form, 

And he whispered with trembling lips a prayer : 
"0, Fatlier, wlio *st ever been kind unto me, 

Once more hear my voice, and list to my })lea. 

The blood in my veins is growing cold, 
My heart is chill with the frost of years, 

My frame is palsied and feeble and old, 

I would linger no more in 'this vale of tears,' 

Come quickly, thou angel of Death, 0, come, 
And take me home — 0, take me home I " 

The head bent low on a pulseless breast. 

The hands hung lifeless by his side. 
His plea was heard : he had gone to rest ! 



THE VAIN SEARCH. 

With a pniver on liis lips, the okl man died, 
And the placid face a faint smile wore, 

For his soul was freed, his life-journey o'er. 

And with mortal man it is ever tlius ! 

His search for Happiness here is vain, 
Till he cross the stream that divideth ns 

From the land where never is grief nor pain. 
Ah, haply if he, ere the summons come, 

Hath his treasure laid in the upper home. 



39 



1S5S. 




My fh^t. 



I HAVE come II}) through ranks of years, 
Which, looking backwards, I can see, 

Stand with white faces wet with tears ; 
And chill with sorrow seemingly, — 
I grieve not they are lost to me. 

I do not gaze as they were shade, 
Formless and fashionless, but I 

For each some human shape have made 
As one by one I pass them by : 
And now they haunt me mockingly. 

They hold in hands as white as snow. 
Records that I have wished were dust, 

So full are they of long ago ; 

Of buried faith and rained trust ; 
I would not see them, but I must. 

There are no memories truly blest 
Even of those first joys I knew — 



MY PAST. 41 

(Which being first were surely best ;) 
The love I gained from the dear few, 
Of all the world most kind and true. 

The hopes I built from my desire. 
Are crushed to atoms by the years ; 

Within my heart the living fire 

Of love, is quenched by bitter tears ; 
And I crouch, slave-like, to my fears. 

I dare not hope for future good, 

My past has been so desolate ; 
And if it should not come, or should. 

I can do nothing less than wait, 

Bowing submissive to my fate. 

March, 1S59. 




Woi'k aqel Wkit. 



Though tliy way l^e rough and stormy, 
And a darkened life tliy fate ; 

Still let Faith and Hope sustain thee, 
Still, Pilgrim ! work and wait. 

Ne'er was night so long and dreary, 
But the morning came at last. 

Courage, then, earth-weary mortal; 
On the Lord thy burden cast. 

Is thy frail heart heavy-laden, 
Dwells a grief within thy breast ; 

Trust this never-failing promise : 
I will give thee peace and rest ! 

Thoiigh afflictions sorely try thee. 
Still remember what he saith : 

Happy man wliom God correcteth ! 
Whom lie loves he chasteneth. 



WOEK A^^D WAIT. 43 

Yea, work on, and tliongli he slay thee, 
Still, througli all things, trust the Lord, 

Wait his time, and if thou 'rt faithful 
Thou shall win the great reward, 

January, 1S59. 



f|> 



<^/i\o 



>ly S^idtuT^e G^allety. 



Never ray of s^nilight falls 
On the high and pictnred walls. 
Never beam of glim'ring stars 
Strnggies through the wiudow-barS;, 
Never silvery moonbeams fair 
Light the pictures gathered there ; 
For this Gallery of Art, 
Lieth deep within my heart. 

Yet a radiance soft and clear, 
Gilds each [)ictnre treasured here. 
Seeming every shade to chase, 
From each well-remembered face. 
For 't is Memory's magic light 
Eesting on each figure bright ; 
And the faces, as I gaze, 
Lead me back to other days. 

0, these pictures in my heart, 
Nanirht so beautiful in Art, 



MY PICTURE OALLERY. 45 

Naught in earth so dear to me, 
As tlie vision liere I see I 
Here the faces of tlie dead 
Smile upon me from o'erhead, 
With tlie loving look of yore 
That their features ever wore. 

One is of a little child. 

With a look so meek and mild, 

And an liumble, lowly air, 

Such as saints are wont to wear : 

Heaven's bright gates were opened wide. 

When our gentle Alice died ;' 

And an angel's crown is now 

Clasped around that waxen brow. 

There is one with melting eyes. 
Like the blue of summer skies ; 
And with sunny waves of hair 
Framing in a face so fair. 
You can scarcely realize 
She should ever utter sighs. 
Or that l)reast should ever know 
Aught of liuman care or woe. 

But the dearest one of all, 
Hanging in my Picture Hall, 
Is the studious, thouglitful face 



46 



MY PICTURE OALLEBT. 



With the form of boyisli grace, 
With the sweet lips like a girFs, 
And the soft brown eyes, and cnrls 
With their heavy clusters now 
Veiling his commanding brow. 

0, his proud and lofty way ! 
Unto me it seems to say, 
Spite of fate or destiny, 
He a firm, true man will be ! 
Ah, that noble, glowing face. 
With the form of boyish grace. 
Is the dearest far to me 
In my Picture Gallery, 




Cl\kf ity. 



Be pitiful I our Father saith. 

To the weary, and the weak. 
And tliough thy l)rother wanderetli oft, 

And sin's dark way doth seek, 
chide him not in angry tones, 

And burning words of liate. 
Nor yet in scoinful silence pass, 

And leave him to liis fate. 

Bnt when tliou seest a brother man 

Upon the brink of shame. 
Then hasten thou to liis relief, 

And I'escue him from blame. 
And kindly take his hand in thine, 

E'en tlio" 't is dipped in blood. 
And tell him there is mercy still. 

If he but bow to (iod. 

Kneel thou Ijeside him — plead for him, 
To One who yet may save, — 



48 CHARITY. 

Wlio e'en at the eleventh liour, 

The murderer forgtive, 
And melt his stony heart witli love ! 

He 's not accursed yet I 
Then tender him thy sympathy ; 

His rank offense, forget. 

Think that he may have striven well 

To crush the tempter down, 
That when he faltered in the strife 

None helped, or cheered him on ; 
Think that thou mightst have fallen too, 

Had his rough patJi heen thine — 
Thy heart might now be black with guilt, 

Hardened as his by crime. 

Then lift the fallen I Cheer the faint, 

The weakly ones of Earth ; 
And if they err, O gently chide. 

Lest they bewail their birth. 
And curse the life that God l)estowed, 

Or rush to him uncalled, 
And meet the awful doom which on 

The unre])entant fall, — 

check the words of harsh reproof 

That jiassion jn-ompts to thee. 
When a frailer brother being sins. 



CHARITY. 49 

And Christ-like tlion shult be, 
If Charity doth till thy lieart, 

And pity for thy kind ; 
Then, when tliy dying hour shall come, 

God's mercy thou wilt find. 

" Be pitiful ! He pitiful ! " 

The fainting spirit cheer. 
And wipe the eye and soothe the heart 

And strive to banish fear. 
To him who falters by the way, 

Ere the long race is run. 
Give earnest, loving words of hope, 

The goal may yet be won. 

Aye ! cherish Charity ! and thou. 

When thy brief life is passed, 
Shall enter in the golden gates. 

Be blest for aye at last ; 
For He who noteth all our ways 

Will, in His (»wn good time, 
Reward His faithful servants, and 

Accept them at His Shrine. 

And then. Woman ! wouldst thou have 

Another bless thy name ? 
Dost thou not clierish charity. 

Thine own unsullied fame ? 
4 



50 CHARITY. 

0, there are those in tliis wide world 
Who once were pure as thou. 

But, guarded not as thou hast l)een, 
Are wretched outcasts now. 

Mayhap an ohlen friend of thine, 

Thy youthful heart's delight. 
Within the tangled ways of life 

Hath wandered from the right. 
Go ! Seek the fallen of thy sex 

In Cliarity, not wrath ; 
The well-nigh ruined soul may yet 

Return to V^irtue's path. 

That soul hath tasted bitterness, 

For Vice hath left its stain, 
Where Purity was once enthroned, — 

Yet ne'er may be again. 
Lest God, in tender mercy, shall 

Send one like thee to save, 
That one less mortal now may find 

An ignominious grave. 

It is thy Sister I And thy God 

Has made her so to be. 
Tlien wilt thou dare refuse the work 

He liath appointed tiiee ? 
Let not thy worldly vanity 



CHARITY. 51 

01)tain tlie triuinpli now ; 
And for thy glorious reward, 
A crown sluill deck thy brow, 

In which the beauteous diadem, 

Sweet Clnirity, shall gleam. 
And be a holy emblem of 

One soul thou didst redeem 
From deeper sin and darker guile, 

Ere yet it was too late 
To turn the wayward footsteps back 

To a nobler, higher fate. 

(), Charity ! Methinks thou art 

A •' Messenger Divine."' 
How dost thy sacred presence make 

Our weary lives sublime ? 
An angel guardian thou art. 

By God's great goodness given, 
To teach men's hearts their duties here, 

To live, and act, for Heaven. 

1857. 



^y Vi^ioi] 



I 'VE a vision now of tlie dreamy Past, — 

A vision of bygone years ; 
Which I see as a i^ietnre "s faintly seen 

Through a mist of dimming tears, 
And the vision's lines seem fading in air 

As a landscape in shade ;ip})ears. 

I see a green vale where children play, 
And the old red school-house there, 

And I hear as then the tiny bell 
Calling them in to prayer, 

And the old, familiar morning song 
Floats out on the quiet air. 

I 'm a child again, and 1 list to catch 

The fair girl teacher's tone. 
Her words do yet bear goodly fruit 

Fro7u seed that then was sown, 
Though she now lies sleeping, still and cold, 

In the valley green — alone. 



MY VISIOJV. 53 

Tlie vision fudes. I see no more 

Tlie children glad and gav ; 
No more, as when a child, with them 

I mingle in their iilay. 
But buoyant, ardent, earnest youth 

And maidens grown, are they. 

I know not where they wander now, — 

Who are living, and who are dead ; 
But the gentle girl whom most I loved. 

The angels to Heaven have led. 
What a strange, sad gloom came over my heart 

When they buried that beautiful head ; 

With its brow as pure as the falling snow, 

And eyes of the violet's blue, 
With hair like the edge of a golden cloud 

Where the sun is breaking through, 
And in shade like the lirown of autumn leaves. 

Or the chestnut's richer hue. 

I see her as often I 've seen of old. 

How 7'eal doth the vision seem I 
Weaving her wondrous eloquent thoughts 

Into a poet's dream. 
As round her are falling the twilight shades 

And the moonlight's silvery gleam. 



54 MY VISION. 

But other visions are rising now 

As the years go inarching by, — 
They are filled with a shadowy, dusky light, 

As clouds o'er a landscape lie, — 
And clearer I see the forms therein 

By j\Iemory's quickened eye. 

I see in the picture that rises novv 

The friends of a later time. 
0, long on the pleasures of school-day scenes 

May the light of Memory shine ! 
How sweet in after years will seem 

The days of auld lang syne ! 

They are those who with me have labored long 
For the stern, hard school of life. 

And now with them on the verge I stand 
Of a world of toil and strife, 

And gazing into the strange beyond, 
I see it with sorrow rife. 

And I turn my gaze on their faces bright : 

what shall the future be 
Of the maidens and youth who are standing now 

On the threshold of life with me ? 
For each must go alone — henceforth 

No teacher or ffuide have we. 



MY VISION. 00 

I see, or fiuicy I see, far on 

Down the vista of coming years, 
How each one's life is all made up 

Of mingled smiles and tears, 
And their sweetest joys and fondest hopes 

Are mixed with the gloomiest fears. 

Not, as their fancy had pictured them, 

A future of undimmed joy. 
The consummation of all their aims, 

And pleasure with no alloy ; 
For rude old Time will mar their schemes, 

Or mayhap he will wholly destroy. 

But one is before me now, whose lirain 
Is teeming with tlioughts in'ofound. 

With his noble heart and his master mind. 
He will sway the world around. 

A glorious future is waiting him, 
For I see him laurel-crowned. 

Now comes a fragile girl, of whom. 

Ere one brief year is fled, 
If I ask of others where is she. 

They will tell me she is dead. 
Disease is on her now, and Death 

Is at her vitals fed. 



56 MT VISION. 

There 's unotlier, — ii proud, ambitious girl. 
With a high, but unworthy aim, — 

The vision shows her in ccmiing years 
As winning a glorious fame, 

And as gaining by her genius rare 
The people's loud acclaim. 

And her ear is charmed by the flattering son^ 

That ministers to her pride. 
But the yearning love of her woman's heart 

Is ever unsatisfied. 
0, sooner than thus pervert her powers, 

'T were better she had died. 

And yet one more tliere is, whose aim 

Is better than all the rest. 
Her only charm is a lovely soul, 

Of all sweet charms the best, 
And the worthy aim of that young life 

Is to make tlie wretched blest. 

And the coming years that maid will find 

A woman of truest worth. 
Her soul is full of zeal, as she 

To her lofty task goes forth. 
0, better the fame that she shall win 

Than the proudest name of Earth. 



MY VISION. 07 

But I tluit we :ill might take tlirough life 

The lessojis of early years, 
As the chart of our earthly Journeyings 

Through this weary "vale of tears."' 
They shall be our guide as each life-boat lone 

The shore of Eternity nears. 

We shall float far apart on life's wide sea, 

Mayhap we shall ne'er meet again. 
We shall see the great world, the beautiful Avorld,, 

And shall taste of its pleasure and pain ; 
And alas ! we shall learn 't is a " Vanity Fair," 

And its pleasures are fleeting and vain. 

then shall we tnrn to our long-lost youth, 

And tlie lessons we then were taught, 
The counsels our teachers so often gave 

That with wisdom and truth were fraught, 
And then shall we make them our sword and shield 

In the battle of life to be fought. 

And though the ties that bind us now 

Shall ere long all be riven, 
Let each one's heart and each one's life 

To noble aims be given. 
Thus each one's mission all fulfilled, 

We '11 meet at last in Heaven. 

1859. 



Weki^y 



Open thy bosom, kindly j\Iotlier Earth, 

And take me in I 
My frail heart faints beneath its grievous load 

Of sorrow, pain and sin. 

I shrink from those stern conflicts I nmst wage 

In this sad life I 
I shudder, knowing I must shortly go 

Into its fierce, wild strife. 

0, coward heart I He still, and suffer on, 

Nor count it loss; — 
Knowest not that who would win the promised 
crown. 

First, must bear the cross ! 

Patience, poor heart ! and in thy Father's 
strength 

Be strong and brave ; 
East, He will give thee, in His own good time ; 

Rest, in the peaceful grave. 

March 15, 1861. 



I^ife "Pidttife^. 



Through windows draped in damask, and across 
richly carved rosewood furniture, streamed the morn- 
ing sun's golden rays, flooding the hushed apartment 
with a mingled gold and crimson tinge, giving it an air 
of elegance and splendor. The tall, marble statues that 
smiled so grimly in the shade, and the noble paintings 
on the walls, glowed with magnificence and beauty be- 
neath the brilliant beams. But a lovelier picture was 
the center-piece. In the lap of its mother lay a sleep- 
ing babe. Delicate Oriental fabrics shrouded tlie tiny 
form, and througli the gauzy drapery was dimly visible 
its beautiful outline. Slowly the white lids unclosed, 
and the dark, dreamy orbs were lifted to those that 
gazed down upon him, briniming with a mother's tender 
love. Down, down on the ruby mouth, on the snowy 
brow, and on the dimpled shoulder, rained kisses, well- 
ing up sweet and dewy from her grateful heart. But 
the shadow of a troubled thought darkens that mother's 
countenance: "The future of my child!" And clasp- 



60 LIFE PICTURES. . 

iiig her jeweled liands, she sends an earnest plea upward 
to the ever open ear of God, — not spoken, not whis- 
pered, nor breathed, yet heard in Heaven. Let us leave 
them in their luxurious home, and wait the lapse of 
years. 

Look ! Would you know them ? "T is the same deli- 
cate-featured woman, gazing from the window of a far 
humbler dwelling than the first in which we met her. 
She is watching the approach of a school-boy, in whose 
noble countenance you may trace the beautiful babe we 
beheld in its mother's arms a dozen years ago. He en- 
tered, and, tossing his books upon the table, sat down 
and bowed his head n]ion his folded arms. " Mother, I 
can "t bear it I" he exclaimed, rising impatiently, with 
flashing eyes and flushed cheeks. "What, Hubert?"' 
she asked, and moved to the side of the troubled boy. 
" Why, no one knows me now,"' he replied in a bitter 
tone; "and tlie boys do n't ask me to Join their plays, 
and they used to think they could do nothing without 
me, and I can "t study, — nor miy thing, since father 
failed and we had to come here," he continued, glancing 
round the room scornfully. " Well, my child," spoke 
the lady, calmly, "we must conquer this foolish pride ; '"' 
but her own lip trembled and her brow contracted at 
the repulsive thought. He looked up in his mother's 
eye, and, dropping his head in her lap, burst forth : 
"Oh, mother, mother, I see, — it is just as hard for 
you ; " and the proud boy struggled to suppress the 



LIFE PICTURES. 61 

choking sobs tluit rose in his throat. Gently she soothed 
her child's Avounded spirit, bidding him remember the 
meek bearing of the truly good, and to aim to excel 
those whose narrow minds estimate the worth of a per- 
son by external ai)pearances. And earnestly lie listened 
to her loving counsel, knowing not of the effort it cost 
to conceal her own emotions to speak thus hopefully; 
but he went from her with a new tliought in his heart, 
and a deep energy to accomi)lish a great purpose Init jiist 
formed. He determined to rise al)ove the level of the 
companions who had withdrawn their regard for him 
since their change of fortune, and in the silence of his 
little room his thoughts found utterance. "A sculptor ! 
How that word thrills my inmost soul. It hath more of 
music than all the world beside, and how I will toil to 
win tiiat name I I will l)e a slave — I will drink the bit- 
terest dregs of the cup of Poverty. — if thus only I nuiy 
gtatify tliis passion within, that urges me to seek the 
world's applause. I see it in thefutui-e, i feel it within, 
that I shall succeed. T shall grasp the lau/els of renown 
with eager hand and firm clutch, that my works shall 
yield to me. Yes, yes, it mnst be sol I can not be de- 
nied. / can not die till I see those who scorn me now, 
bow in almost reverence at the shrine of the genius they 
shall yet acknowledge I possess. I will remember every 
mocking laugh, every bitter taunt, and they shall be 
humbled as I have been. 'I'hen it will be mif turn to 
laugh, but I will not stoo]) to tiiat. I will not con- 



62 LIFE PICTURES. 

descend to notice even their sJiaiiie. Ah I hoiv I will 
liumhJe tlieij) I " 'T was the impetuous language of a 
hoy, but never forgotten. Oh, who can tell the worth of 
a mother's encouraging words? What a firm, brave 
spirit they infuse into a heart just ready to yield the 
bright hopes and schemes that have long been cherished ; 
and oh, how many, whose wildest asjiirations have been 
realized, have attributed all tlieir success to the influence 
of a mother's tireless encouragements ! Her words have 
a spurring power that exerts a lasting influence on the 
heart and mind of her child, and the results of her en- 
deavors may live for ages ; tliough /ler name 1)e forgotten 
in the great world, still the lionor won by her chikl is 
lier own. Oh words I how potent they are ! How may 
they raise the failing courage, restore the brightest hopes, 
lighten the (jver-burdened heart, and create affection and 
gratitude in the breast of a lone earth-wanderer, or crush 
the noblest aims, darken the fairest future, engender an 
evil spirit, clumge a loving, gentle being to a hater of man- 
kind, or blast forever the prospects of an immortal soul ! 
A block of Parian marl)le stood l)et'()i'c him. and, 
bending earnestly to the lofty task, he carved a glorious 
figure. To careless eye it would seem, even now, almost 
a breatliing being ; but to him wlio had toiled over the 
rough stone so many days and still had but developed 
the shajie, it was far from l)eing finislied. With a 
firm, skillful hand the deep bold lines were draAvn, and 
then the more delicate cliiselings seemed to complete 



LIFE PICTURES 68 

the stiitue. Yet, as lie walked backward and scanned 
his work, his nice, discriminating eye detects a line too 
faint, or the rounded outline of a limb still imperfect, 
and he must retouch the work ere it is submitted to 
public criticism. The arching brow is lifted slightly^ 
the thin iiostrils rendered more transparent, the lines 
about the mouth a trifle deepened, and thus the magic 
hand passed over the form until a perfect figure was re- 
vealed, an Apollo. The sculptor gazed long and silently, 
and then, sinking at the feet of his finished work, mur- 
mured : "My Mother, that thou wert here to share my 
glory ! but tlie glory of Paradise is thine. And tho2t, 
the final object of my lifelong sacrifice and toils, thon 
shalt go to the WorUrs Fair, and bring me the palm for 
which I have so long struggled. Yet who will congrat- 
ulate my success?" and he sighed as he thought of his 
ntter loneliness. 

Months passed, — slowly to tlie anxious sculptor, anx- 
ious and fearful for the late of the child of his genius, — 
and then came tlie well-earned reward. Crowds flocked 
around him. The rich and gifted and renowned sought 
the unknown sculptor, and his heart glowed with a laud- 
able pride; his hand wrought greater wonders from the 
marble, and he went bravely on in the " Battle of life." 
No more sutfcring for the very necessities of life, no 
more humbling of his proud nature ; the aspirations of 
his youth were fulfilled, the high aim of a lifetime ac- 
comi)lisljed. 



Ov^ 



^lide 



The sliadowy dimples in her cheeiss, 
Whene'er she smiles, whene'er she speaks, 
Tlie soft light 'mid her wavy liair, 
Her white hrow witli no shade of care, 
Her fresh girl beauty, free from art, 
It was not these that stole my heart. 

Nor yet the sweet, unconscious grace. 
That so befits her form and face : 
Nor all the gentle, winning charms 
Of timid kiss and twining arms. 
It was not these, my little dove, 
Witli which you won my lioyish love. 

The low, sweet magic of thy tones, — 
The charm most potent woman owns, — 
Tliy mild, persuasive, gentle word. 
That e'er my better nature stirred, 
Tliy voice, witli that low music rife, 
TJ/is is mv t;ihsman through life. 



S I'ale of tlie \Yi^c^. 



0, WHAT do the winds say ? Is there not language in 
their voices ? I have listened to them when they mur- 
mured in soft musical tones, when they moaned sadly as 
if in grief, when they whistled merrily, and when tliey 
shouted in anger, and fancied I could interpret their 
strange, wild language. 

. The light, morning breeze strives to woo the leaves, and 
tells them of his home in a secluded, quiet cave far away 
in a beautiful valley, where he begs them to make theirs ; 
but the leaves turn away their bright heads, while the 
wind sighs, and again whispers so gently and lovingly, 
that they can not resist his eloquence, and, bowing mod- 
estly, they consent to leave the old maple tree and go 
with the wind to his home. Now they are clasped in 
his airy, unseen arms, and away they speed over rivers 
and mountains and trees, leaving far behind them their 
native branch, till their wings grow weary, and sinking 
toward the earth again, they spy a little green vale, in 
which is a large brown rock, and beneath that is the 
5 



66 A TALE OF THE WINDS. 

cave-home of the wind and his l)eautiful leaves. It is 
a lonely Init lovely spot : tliere a tiny rivnlet hides its 
laughing wavelets between two mossy banks ; there the 
willows droop and sway gracefully as the zephyr winds 
round among its slight limbs, and there he will be happy, 
dancing in the golden sunshine with his gay l)ride-leaves. 
But soon their green cheeks are changing to the pale 
brown tint of decay ; their steps have ceased to fall on 
the rocky floor : they have fled to a dark, gloomy corner 
to die alone. The fickle wind no longer cares for them 
now that they are faded, and is seeking fairer ones, who, 
if they yield to his wily, flattering voice, will share the 
fate of their silly sisters. 

Sometimes I hear a low, mournful tone, as if some sad 
heart were mourning the loss of a loved one ; and listen- 
ing more intently, I find it is nothing but the wind gi'iev- 
ing over the dead flowers. Long he lingers by their little 
graves, sighing tliat they will never again welcome his 
approach ; no longer they wear a deeper hue as he stoops 
to kiss them ; no longer their heads nod kindly, as he 
fans the dew from their brows; no, they are all gone, — 
withered. — dead. He will liie to his^home in the leafless 
woods, and wander among the trees, sadly moaning, till, 
weary and lonely, his voice dies away and methinks he 
sleeps. 

Again, a shrill voice greets my ear. Every thing is in 
motion, as the merry madcap wind comes flying over 
tln^ hills, Inistling about, prying into every crevice, rat- 



A TALE OF THE WIJVBS. H7 

tliiig crockery, seizing cii])s miuI canes, bidding little boys 
"Catch me if you can." as he trips them n]), and laugh- 
ing at the wrath of old bachelors, as he tips their "tiles." 
0, he is a saucy, mischievous rogue, playing tricks on 
every one. I never saw him with a sober visage, but 
always whistling gaily, "'Over the hills and faraway." 
Where is Ms home ? 0, it is any-where, every-where ; 
if he finds i^lenty of fun for himself and chagrin for his 
victims, the frolicsome fellow is in high glee. 

Once more I hear the wind far out on the wide ocean, 
and now he comes in another form. He is Itattling with 
the furious storm-king. The dark water soon rises and 
foams in great white waves. A ship is in tiie midst of 
tlie two combatants. The storm-king and the hurri- 
cane together beat fiercely against the strong sides, but 
neither gains the mastery. Now the wind roars fear- 
fully, then howls like an angry demon. But the storm- 
king grows weak in the struggle, and the wind is con- 
queror. Now he tells the stately ship of his deep home 
beneath the sea ; and of tlie corals, and diamonds, and 
cluster of pearls from every clime, that decorate his 
princely home ; and he asks the ship to go and preside 
in those rich halls. But she answers: " I ;im bearing 
precious souls across these Avaters, and can not sacrifice 
their lives to my own happiness ; then, in pity, tempt 
me no longer." ''Oh, come to my home, noble ship," 
spoke tlie wind; "thy burden of linman beings will 
sleep but a little while, if thou but consent. Come and 



68 A TALE OF THE WIKDS. 

reign in those old, antique halls. There the mermaids 
and water nymphs Hit about, twining costly gems in the 
carpet of sea-weed ; and there, thousands of beings are 
slumbering calmly." Still the good ship resisted, but 
the mighty wind renewed his entreaty, and the sliii)'s 
heavy timbers began to creak and part asunder. Ter- 
rible shrieks fill the air. A hundred pale, frantic men 
are struggling in the water, in vain crying for helji. 
They are doomed to fill ''watery graves.'" 'I'he waves 
close over them, and all is calm again, on the great 
ocean. The wind is reveling in his deep, dark cavern- 
haunt, and cold corpses are strewn around him, among 
beautiful sea-shells and sprigs of coral. There shall 
they sleep "till the last trump soundeth and the sea 
giveth up its dead." 



1^0 k Sii^d 



THAT FLEW IN AT THE SCHOOL-ROOM 
WINDOW. 



0, WHEREFORK art tliou here? 
Bird of the forest tree, and heaven's air ; 
Art weary of thy flight in realms so fair, 

That tliou to us appear ? 

And wherefore doth thy wing 
Thus flutter in that agitated way, 
As if thy trembling spirit scarce would stay 

Beneath its covering ? 

Dost bring sweet tales with thee 
Of glories thou hast seen in earth and sky 
In thy wide wanderings ? Then, birdling, why 

Wilt thou still silent be ? 

O, raise thy joyous voice, 
And sing of all thy woodland mates, thy home. 
And why thy wild, free spirit souglit to roam. 

Why this strange clioice ? 



70 



TO A BIRD IN THE SCHOOL- ROOM. 



Where is thy native nest? 
Around the foliage of some shady wootl, 
Where thy fond mate doth guard the tender brood 

That yet in down are dressed ? 

'I'hen wlierefore linger thou ? 
Has wild ambition crept into thy heart, 
And,wouldst thou learning have, and bear a part 

As in duties we ? 




S f^ofti'ait. 



A LiTT].E i)i('tui'e I will paint for you 

In words, as sometimes better limners do. 

A maid, just passing tlirougli a charmed door, 
Cliildhood behind, womanhood just before ; 

A fawn-like manner, and a glance so shy, 
I scarce can catch the color of her eye ; 

fSometimes, in earnest mood, I think it gray — 
Calm, clear and luminous, like full-dawned day; 

And sometimes, when tlie gentle heart looks through, 
I know it fnr a tender, lieavenly blue ; 

And shady hair, but whether loosened tress, 
Or band, or braid, or curl, I can not guess. 

Yet this I know : somehow it lends her face 
An all unstudied, yet artistic grace: 



72 A PORTRAIT. 

And her complexion, whether dusk or fair, 
I ken not, but it suitetli well her liair; 

I know it is ethereal, saintly, })ure, 

Like one who owns a spirit brave t' endure ; 

Transparent, too, as the" her darkest thought 
She need not shun, if into strong light brought : 

Clouding and brightening with each emotion, 
As winds will change the surface of the ocean ; 

And always, whether grave or glad, there sits 
Tlie signet of God's peace upon her lips. 

Whate'er her dress or oi'uament may be. 
Her robes are always white to me. 

Like one who, though he treads a world all vile. 
Yet keeps his siiirit-raiment free from guile. 

I think she hath no jewels save that one 

Which we were bidden to wear by God's own Son- 

The "meek and quiet s])irit," that I know 
She weareth always with her robe of snow. 

A shrinking, sensitive, and fragile flower. 
Yet strong, heroic, grand in moral power. 



A PORTRAIT. 73 

And much of trouble hath this young girl known. 
(Perchance from it she gained her life's high tone) ; 

Home, friends, and careful nurture, once had she. 
In a far tropic island of the sea ; 

Bnt soon a strange, inexorable fate 
Cast her an orphan, poor and desolate, 

On a strange shore. Or was it Providence, 
Inscrutable, yet kind, with wise intents, 

Sought thus to noble ends her life to mould, 
Thus cleansed from dross, developed thus the gold. 

And by a stern and better discijdine. 

Brought strongly outward what was best within ? 

0, who would dare to court the dread ordeal 
Of sacrifice and loss she yet doth feel ? 

Yet who but envies her the chastened will, 
That cahn and holy trust through good or ill. 

That sweet, assured reliance on the Heart 

Divine, yet human, that hath known Life's smart ? 

I promised you a sketch sometime ago, 
A faint, imperfect outline this, I know ; 

And could I dip my pen in Heaven's light, 
My picture sliould ho fitter for your sight. 



Q 



sk I^ittle }A^i\. 



He was a common little lad, 

Unjirepossessiiig quite ; 
An unkempt look he always had, 

Repellant to the sight ; 
Xo outward power to win had he, 
Child of neglect and poverty. 

And worse — he had, we used to say, 
A somewhat sluggish mind. 

That seemed to darkly grojie its way,- 
The patient, plodding kind : 

Still, with his grim persistency, 

A decent scholar yet might he. 

It chanced there came a holiday; 
Next morn he 'd disappeared. 
"Johnnie got hurted yesterday," 

An urchin volunteered : 
"We "s playing on the railroad track ; 
There came a car along ker smack I 



A LITTLE MAN. 75 

'And mil riglit over .loliiinie's foot. 

I liollered then, like mad : 
'Cause, wlieii I see tlie bloody boot, 

I knew 't was pooty bad ; 
And then some men, they took liim home, 
And sent for Dr. Morse to come." 

No small delinquents stayed that day; 

The lag-gards all dismissed. 
The lads commanded straight away. 

The last wee lassie kissed, 
I hurried throngli the noontide glare. 
To Johnnie, propjied in rocking chair; 

Across another broken one 

The poor, crushed member lay : 
Tlie injured child was all alone, 

8ave for the babe at play. 
Soiled and untended, on the floor, 
An infant two years old or more. 

The mother, in some washing tub. 

Her tears that day let fall ; 
The fatlier gone — a rich man's '• sub." — 

To serve his country's call : 
For labor is the price of bread. 
And little children must be fed. 



76 A LITTLE MAN. 

" Poor little man ! how hard it is ! " 

And then I quite broke down. 
" 0, yes ! do n^t cry, I beg you, miss ! " 

(Said with a smothered groan) ; 
" But when it 's more than I can bear, 
I try to say a little prayer ; 

"And then I tliink of wliat I learned 
Out of our reading-book, 
About a man who always turned 
To good " (and here he shook 
With pain, and was a moment dumb), 
"Just every thing that chanced to come." 

" ' If John was afflicted with sickness or pain. 

He wished himself better, but did not complain, 
Nor lie down and fret in despondence and sorrow. 
But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow.' " 

Brave heart ! and true philosophy ! 

That canceled half the sting. 
Extracting, like the honey bee. 

Sweetness from every thing. 
The teacher something learned, that day, 
From humble little John O'Shea. 



¥l)i^ee dui^l^. 



He held them up before me' — three long, bright 

• rings of hair ; 
No word he spoke, and I was mute, as we stood 

sadly there ; 
Three brown and shining curls they were, a glint- 
ing in the sun. 
What language had those voiceless things of our 

beloved one ? 
0, how the memories olden thronged in upon the 

brain ! 
But all tlieir garnered sweetness, was turned to 

bitter pain 
When I thought, but tliis is left us — but this, 

and nothing more — 
This clustered hair, to tell of all the happiness of 

yore. 

We loved her! oh we loved her — and we never 

knew how well 
Till the grim phantom shade of Death across our 

threshold fell. 



78 THREE CURLS. 

And passionate and pleading prayers from break- 
ing liearts pnt uj) 
Might not remove the specter shade, nor stay the 

l)itter Clip. 
I see her — not as erst I saw, flower-crowned, 

white-rohed, a fair and gentle bride. 
Beside the one whose manly heart throl)bed high 

with love and pride, 
Where music swelled, and laugh and song and 

nnmy a merry word 
Fell gayly froui young, ruliy li[)s, ami naught but 

joy was heard. 
While summer skies and airs were sweet, before 

June roses Hed, 
A message came with suddenness — a word that 

she lav dead. 



Not dead I Our l)right one is not dead, l)ut passed 

from death to life ! 
Passed from this land of change and gloom. 

To one with glories rife ! 
Sucli beatific glories as our weak minds have not 

dreamed. 
For mortal fancy may not ])aint the joys of the 

redeemed. 
But she, with finer, subtler ear than our dull, 

earthly sense, 



THREE CURLS. 1{) 

Had canglit the Father's high command: ''My 

(hmghter, hasten thence!" 
From o'er the crystal battlements she heard tlie 

angeFs call : 
Our tear-dimmed, straining eyes saw not beyond 

the jasper wall. 

She knew the burst of melody through all that 

seraph throiig. — 
We caught no faintest echo from that triumpliant 

song : 
We only stood and wept Ijeside her beautiful, 

cold clay. 
While the \mye spirit, glad and free, went on its 

shining way ; 
The glory of young Motherhood, that would have 

crowned her brow. 
Put otf foi' amaranthine blooms, she weareth 

sweetly now ; 
No taint of Earth upon her rol)es, in Jesns' blood 

made white : 
No pain, nor sin, nor sorrow, in that land of life 

and light. 

0, anguish -riven hearts, be still I It is the 

Father's hand. 
Though crushed and Ideedi ng now ye lie, and 

can not understand 



80 THREE CURLS. 

His dark, mysterious Providence, be sure He 

loveth 3'et 
The eliildren wliom He chasteneth, nor will their 

woe forget. 
Bless God, the tender life she gave, in yielding up 

her own. 
Remains to fill the aching heart, and cheer the 

saddened home. 
A precious, holy legacy I 0, God will love to 

bless 
Our pure and sainted Tilla's child — the little 

Motherless. 

I see her now, — 0, not as then; that vision 

passed ; but this 
Not time nor change shall e'er dispel, for 't is 

eternal bliss ! 
She wanders 'ueath the Tree of Life, in that 

celestial home, 
And the radiance that enfolds lier, is from the 

great white throne. 
Dear Lord I Forgive tli' unchastened will, and 

bid our murmuring cease. 
L^pon the sorely stricken hearts breathe thou the 

balm of Peace ! 
Those soft, brown curls — he laid them back with 

rev'rent, tender hand. 



THREE CURLS. 81 

And slow he spoke : ''I can not wish lier back to 

this sad hnid." 
Heavenward Ave turn our wistful eyes, and still 

Thy lo\je I see, 
For all our bitter discipline shall lead us uj) to 

Thee. 

July, 1SG5. 



Oi| tlie gek. 



On tlie Welters, mild and wide, 

My brothers sail to-day. 
And o'er the rocking vessel's side 

They watch the mad waves play ; 
The mad and merry waters, 

The laughing, treacherous sea — 
0, 1 would my Iwnnie laddies 
Were safe at home with me I 
And now I mind me of an olden time, 
And childish visions of a sunnier clime, 
AVhen the South land an El Dorado seemed. 
And bore a part in all they i)lanned, and dreamed, 
Poring thro' long, long days o'er old romance. 
Full of adventures strange, and quaint sweet fancies ; 
And wanderings of brave knights in distant land. 
Thus, their ambitions stirred, they 've slipt from 
our fond hands. 

angry Sea, 
Be still, be still ! 
And curb your passionate, stormy will ; 



ox THE SEA. 83 

O, beautiful, mocki)\g, smiling Sea, 
Be true to the trust I give to thee ! 
Pale stars in the vaulted sky, 

Golden jewels set in black, 
Watch the lonely vessel fly 

On her phosphorescent track. 
Hark ! The sweet-toned chapel bell 
Calls from cloister and from cell. 
Brothers mine ! our prayers^ascending 
May perchance with thine]])e blending. 

Ave Marie I Guard them well ! 

■*tJKm 

No more we '11 roam'^together, 

My merry boys and I, 
O'er hill, and crag, and heather, 

As in the years gone by. 
I see the youthful trio, 

As in those charmed days • 
Thro' tlie old scenes tliey^'re flitting 

Across my mental gaze — 
Through woody dell, and forest crypt. 
All the tender foliage tipped 

With the sunlight's i)aling gold. 
All the mellow landscape spreading 

Like a picture rare and old ; 
Wliile our feet the^paths'are treading. 
As we drove the cattle and the lambkins from the 
wold. 



84 ON THE SEA. 

On the Sea they ride to-night, 

The ravenous, greedy Sea, 
And fast the leagues do multiply 

That lie 'twixt them and me. 
0, for the weird gift of a Sybil, 

Their future to foretell I 
Still I can pray, as thesy speed on the way, 
Sweet Marie ! Guard them well ! 
Full many a cycling year will find its grave, 
Ere they recross the heaving, trackless wave ; 
Yet sometime, Hope will sing, my brothers twain 
Shall gather 'neath the roof-tree once again. 
On land or Sea, 
0, hear our j^lea ! 
Still, wherever my dear ones dwell, 
Ave Marie ! Guard them Avell I 



W 



o/i\o 



¥o a Picture of Vit^iV^ Sybil. 



Beautiftl Sybil I Witli thy prophet eyes, 
Canst read my horoscope in yonder skies ? 
Canst solve the future, that to me is sealed ? 
wave thy wand, and let it be revealed I 

draw the veil, and grant me one swift look 
Into the mysteries of that wonderous book I 
For those deep eyes, so searching and so strange. 
Seem to look through whatever is in thy range. 

Upon thy dark and splendid gypsy face 
Prints of a strange and mystic power I trace ; 
that those perfect lips would part and tell 
What thou dost read among the stars so well ! 

The turbaned brow, half lost in softest shade ; 
The deej), warm, flesh tints, all so skillful made; 
The pink flush mantling on the oval clieek, — 
All, all so lifelike, surely sh^ iin/sf speak I 



86 



TO A PICTURE OF VIRGILS SYBIL. 



Speak, Sybil : tell me what those glorious eyes. 
With their strange light, so wonderons and so 

wise, 
See 'mong the stars ; thy visions there relate, 
Beautiful Oracle ! tell mv fate ! 



L( 1 1 i e 



Make room, sweet flowers, in your autumn bed, 

For the graceful blossom we loved is dead. 

All vainly we cherished her fading bloom, 

Our bright one slumbers ; sweet flowers, make room. 

Dear Mother Earth I on your fragrant breast. 
Make room for the tired child seeking rest ! 
Life's strange mosaic of joys and woes 
Is finished, — and calm be her last repose ! 

All hushed and soothed is the turmoil now ; 
All care lines fade from tlie fair girl brow; 
No sin, no anguish, no throb of pain, 
Shall ever stir the still heart again. 

On the sunny hill-slope, where soft winds blow, 
Where winter skies sift their purest snow, 
Where spring's first violet breath is shed. 
Make room for our beautiful, holy dead. 



88 LOTTIE. 

shining seraph at Heaven's gates, 
Fling wide your portal for one who waits, 
Bought with a price, and redeemed from sin ! 
Make room, for the white soul entering in, 

Make room, sweet angels; amid your choir. 
Our darling's fingers shall sweep a lyre, 
The sweet voice silent shall yonder rise, 
And echo the anthems of Paradise. 

Dear Jesus, when we, too, trembling, come 
To the River's brink, — oh then, make room. 
Make room for us all, on the Heart Divine, 
AVhere Lottie is folded forever tliine. 




s p 14 1\ ^ 



I KN'ow where the flowers are springing 

I know where tlie brooks are free ; 
I know where the birds are singing 

A jubihint welcome for me. 
Yet brown and crisp is the heather ; 

Yet bare are tlie forest trees ; 
xVnd s(miething of wintery weather 

Lingereth yet in the breeze. 

But the dear ohl liills are calling, 

And ! how I long to respond 1 
For the genial showers are falling 

On the wood and meadow beyond. 
I know what to seek in the Avoodland ; 

The trailing ar1)utus is tliere : 
And <lown in the meadow tlie cowslip 

Is dressing her bright yellow hair. 

And innocence, pale and saintly, 
And passionless violets white. 



90 SPBIA'G. 

Breutlie over the niarsh .so I'liiiitly, 

As they wake from the hjiig winter night. 

By jincl by, the gay cardinal flower 
Will flash out her glowing red, 

With the leaves of a wild -wood bower 
All over her blushes sjjread. 

0, I hear you, my fair, dainty beauties — 

Your perfumed, but voiceless call ! 
So I '11 hie me away from all duties, 

Aiul hasten to welcome ye all. 
Yes, \velcome the Spring, and the gladness 

Of quickening sunshine and rain ; 
She poureth a sweet, subtle madness 

Through Nature's every vein. 

So, while the soft ze])liyrs are wooing 

My senses, with lover-like art, 
I '11 follow where songsters are cooing. 

And blossoms spring up from earth's heart, 
And wand'ring in fields fresh and vernal, 

I '11 dream of the glorious home 
Where beauty and Si)ring are eternal. 

And winter and Death never come. 



S Voice feni tl\e Cliildi^eii. 



0, LOVE US, dear l)ig i)eoi)le I It is the children's 

cry- 
Life is a strange, hard problem we 've just liegan to 

try ; 
We do not understand it, and only this we know ; 
love us, do but love us, for that will help us so. 

Our minds are very little ; our years are very few. 
Do you guess the questioning glances we u])ward 

turn to you ? 
Do you know how liard we struggle with all our 

feeble might ? 
How we grope to find your Jesus ? how we want to 

do the right ? 
'T is but a sorry struggle we make of it, 't is true ; 
And so, you dear big i)eople, we turn for helj) to 

you ; 
Our intellects are young, our faculties are small, 
Yet in our yearning bosoms we 've heard the 

Saviour's call. 



92 J VOICE FROyj THE CHILDREN. 

O, often in our playing we Ve felt our need of 

Him ; 
It is a sacred feeling, and not a childish whim ; 
'T is not a morbid notion, and not a vain desire 
Should thus, with holy longings, our little hearts 

inspire. 

O, at the solemn nightfall, after our prayer and 

song, 
We grievingly remember how often we 've done 

wrong, 
And scarcely dare to slumber when the lamp is 

ta'en away ; 
But 0, good Christian people, you 've learned a 

better way. 

You Ve learned to keep from sinning, and God's 

-sweet favor thus 
Abideth ever with you. — tell it unto us. 
The secret of your living — that something you call 

Faith. 
That saves you from transgression, and from the 

second death. 

'J'each us that precious lesson ; we will not slight 

the task ; 
Show us the way to Jesus ; love us ; 't is all we 

ask ; 



A VOICE FROM THE CHILDREN. 9^3 

Our little feet may stumble,, and perchance may 

wander far. 
But cherish us. and love us, and be our guiding 

star. 

From months of babes and sucklings He has i:>eY- 
fected praise I 

0. in that grand, sweet anthem, which angel chil- 
dren raise. 

We long to join our voices, and honor Jesus, too. 

Did he not bid us welcome ? 0, then, why will not 
you ? 

''You think we shall know better our own minds 

by-and-by ? " 
Meantime we may be learning to cheat, and swear, 

and lie ; 
father, mother, teacher, help us, and you shall see 
What earnest little Christians even your babes may 

be. 

Give us your warm, sweet sympathy, and hold us by 

the hand ; 
Guide us with loving patience up toward the better 

land ; 
Then say with full assurance there, in eternity : 
Here, Lord, am I, Thy servant, with them Thou 

gavest me. 



Sekutiful fjki|tl^. 



Dimpled and soft, nm\ tiny and wliite. 

And sliapely, the hands I beheld to-night, 

Fluttering over piano keys 

Like lilies flirting with summer breeze ; 

Clasped by (-hivalrous young gallants 

In the change of the undulating dance; 

Over them passionate vows were said 

When the midnight and morning hours were 

wed ; 
Dear little morsel of a hand. 
Potent as witches' magic wand ! 

Fair, cunning fingers, dainty as snow, 

How to ensnare right well you know ; 

How to be graceful and busy, too. 

With a charming air of " nothing to do ! " 

Idle as lovely, aimless as fair. 

Verily ye are a pretty pair ; 

Hands that were given to clieer and bless, 



BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 95 

Folded in beautiful uselessuess ; 
Yet Canova marble's purity 
Scarce in its snow can I'ival thee ! 

Brown and bony, and wrinkled and thin, 
No fairy softness nor satin-smooth skin, — 
Such are another pair I know. 
Warmly welcomed wherever they go, 
Bearing sweet bounty to jioverty's door, 
Full of alms-deeds for the sick and poor; 
On the brow that is wearied overmuch. 
Tender and motherly fond, their touch 
Falls with a gentle and restful calm. 
Grateful as incense, healing as balm. 

Faithful, unwearied, and cheerily too, 
Doing with might what they find to do, — 
Often a thankless and toilsome lot. 
Unacknowledged and quite forgot ; 
Kind and patient, and diligent still. 
Always through goodly report or ill ; 
These are the hands all calloused and l)rown, 
That empty and useless never hang down. 
Ah, where the vigilant Master stands. 
Which will be reckoned as beautiful hands ? 



1 1| ^ k i~( e 



THE BRIDE OF DUKE ALEXIS. 



She sits by the turret window, 

Just as she sat of yore, 
Looking away to the Southward, 

For one who will come no more. 

Eagerly, vainly, watching, 

With her strained, expectant eyes. 
And she sees in the far, dim distance 

A cloud of dust arise. 

She thinks 't is tlie gallant horseman 

Coming again at last, 
Eiding the same black charger. 

That he rode in the distant Past. 

Adown the carved old staircase, 
She glides with winged feet, 

And heart in a sweet, wild tumult, 
Tlie horseman brave to meet. 



INSANE. 97 

And lo I she finds "t is another, 

Wlio has ridden swiftly by — 
And she goes back to her watching. 

By tlie casement lone and high. 

The peasantry in tlie valley 

Know well the lady's face ; 
They have seen it in the tower, 

Always in the self-same place. 

And strangers, wdio glance at the window, 

Will turn and look up again, 
To see what vision smote them 

With that sudden throb of pain. 

They turn Avith (piestioning wonder, 

And see with a quick surprise, 
That there dwells no light of reason 

In the depths of her mournful eyes. 

The servants speak to her softly. 

In that old baronial place ; 
They knoAv every shade that crosses 

The gentle maniac's face. 

And her father, the sad old Baron, 
With frantic love has sought 
7" 



98 INSANE. 

To restore to its throne — but vainly — 
The poor mind, so distraught. 

And all, with a tender reverence, 

A loving, pitiful care, 
Seek gently to draw the mad girl, 

From her sorrowful vigil there. 

But ever at hour of twilight, 
And when the moon is high. 

And oft till the dawn of morning. 
Whoever is passing by 

Still sees at the turret window. 
What many have seen before, 

A woman who looks to the Southward, 
For one who will come no more. 




^l^e Coi\^e(|tiei\de^ 

OF 

A SIXTH SENSE. 



I HAD been studying the chapter on the senses in 
Mental Philosophy, until late in the evening, but grad- 
ually an irresistible drowsiness stole over me, and I laid 
my head in tlie oj)en book, and was soon roving in the 
land of dreams. And as I dreamed, I grew discontented 
that we had only five senses, and murmured against the 
good Father, saying: "Now, when God made us, he 
might just as well have given one more, and it would 
have been such a great advantage to us. Now, if we 
had the gift of second sight, how much more knowledge 
we could acquire, how much easier, and then we should 
be so much happier ! " 

Suddenly it seemed to me that my wish was granted, 
that my vision was rendered more acute, and I had the 
faculty of discerning men's thoughts. I congratulated 
myself on having received this valuable gift, and pro- 
ceeded to try its power. 



KM) CONSEQUENCES OF A SIXTH SENSE. 

Slowly I paced up and down the thoroughfare, read- 
ing at a glance the motives and purposes, the passions 
and affections, of each passer-by. I noticed two men at 
a street corner, conversing earnestly. The outward ap- 
pearance of one was prepossessing in the highest degree. 
The other was a common-looking man of rustic garb 
and manner, but possessed of a goodly share of the yel- 
low god. It was a lawyer Avhom he was consulting, and 
that gentleman was carefully and cautiously measuring 
the depth of his client's pocket. As they separated, 
I read beneath the lawyer's fine exterior these evil 
thoughts: "Ere this day twelve months. Brother Jona- 
than, with the help of luck and the devil, your heavy 
dollars will change owners." 

' • Alas for Justice ! " said I, and, with feelings some- 
what dampened at this view of human nature, I passed 
along, and stejiped into a dry goods store, where I had 
another opportunity for exercising my new power, by ob- 
serving a persistent clerk put forth the superior quality 
of his goods in most eloquent terms to a lady customer, 
now and then paying a tribute to her vanity, by telling 
her that, "to be sure, it would not do for every lady to 
wear that style of goods ; but really, such a fine figure 
would be set off to such advantage in those broad stripes 
and rich colors." This dose of flattery was quite irre- 
sistible, and decided the lady to take it ; while the smart 
clerk gave himself a vast deal of credit for his suc- 
cess, saying boastingly to his fellow-clerk : "I made that 



CONSEQUENCES OF A SIXTH SENSE. KH 

(lumpy creature ]'eiilly lielieve she ]iad a pretty form. 
That 's the way to get the extra shillings — just give 
their vanity a little stimulus ; takes me to read human 
nature." 

I wandered into the street again, and met an old man. 
the secret pages of whose life made me shudder at the 
atrocious crimes recorded there. Yet I knew him to be 
universally respected and revered for his wisdom and 
age. "Short-sighted humanity ! " I sighed, and turned 
to read the next one. It was a woman, whose outward 
appearance was simply like other women, but in her 
lieart I found a darker tragedy than was ever written out 
by pen. 

The next was a doctor, and a genuine sinner. Thus 
ran his thoughts: ''Now, if the poor fool had let me 
alone, he would have been well by this ; but it's my good 
luck. Let 's see : he is an influential man ; I had better 
bring him as low as possible ; make 'em think it 's a gone 
case, and then miraculously restore him. That will raise 
my reputation a peg or two ; and then he has a deep 
pocket besides, which I shall have the pleasure of light- 
ening." " Poor Avretch," thought I, "■ how many human 
sacrifices you must answer for I " 

Many time-worn friends I met, in whose hearts I found 
somewhat of envy, or jealousy, or malice, and my soul 
sickened at the sight, and I said bitterly: "My faitli in 
them was little enough l)eforc, but it will be less here- 
after." 



102 CONSEQUENCES OF A SIXTH SENSE. 

Hitherto I had not found my new sense so much a 
source of pleasure as I had expected, but I would give it 
another trial ; so I wandered into a church, and found 
myself just in time for the text, which was announced 
by the holy (?) man in this wise: "First Corinthians, 
tenth chapter, thirty-third verse. Even as I please all 
men in all things, not seeking mine otvn profit, but the 
profit of many, that they may be saved.'' By my in- 
creased powers of vision, I saw that his thoughts ran 
thus: "Now do your best to-day, and till you get the 
five hundred added to your salary, and then it will do to 
relax a little. That last sermon made a decided impres- 
sion ; you have only to confirm it by a few more such, to 
carry the point; then you may revel in two thousand a 
year." Feeling that I could not appreciate the sermon 
after this revelation, I left the house, now fully disgusted 
witli tlie result of tlie new sense I had so eagerly desired. 

" Enough, enough," I cried; "humanity is bad 
enough as we see it ; let me look no more on such re- 
pulsive pictures ! Would that the evil genius that con- 
ferred this gift, would take away the source of so mucli 
misery I " Suddenly, by the aid of a smart rap on my 
shoulder, I woke, to find myself in possession of five 
senses only, and have ever since thought them quite 
sufficient. 

1S58. 



S Street Ii\dieiei\t. 



It was as bright and keen a night 

As Christmas-time could show ; 
The city thoroughfare was white 

With freslily fallen snow ; 
The proud moon, from lier sapphire throne, 

And myriad stars on high, 
In cold and regnant splendor shone 

Down on the passers-by. 

A human tide surged to and fro 

Along the busy mart, 
Like a life-current's ebb and flow 

Through some gigantic heart ; — 
When little Archie, waiting, stayed 

Outside a fancy store. 
Till grown-up sister Bertha said 

Her purchases were o'er ; 

Then took his tiny, mittened palm, 
And asked if he were tired. 



104 A STREET INCIDENT 

"0, no I two fellows came along 
And halted, and inquired : 
' Bub, what ^s going on in Music Hall ? 
We 're strangers here, and Sonny, 
Just tell us where to tind some fun. 
And here 's some eand\' money I ' 

"I didn't take it, Bertha, but 
I said, I 'II run and see ; 
The Opera House was awful dark. 

And still as it could be I 
I hurried back and told them so ; 
They thanked me with a smile. 
'Now Bill,' said one, where shall we go 
To kill time for a while ? ' 

" ' I do n't know, sirs,' I said, ' unless — 

There 's prayer-meeting close by.' 
And then one looked so queer, I guess 

He 'd half a mind to cry I 
The other said : * By jingo, Bill, 

Let 's go I ' and left me then. 
They did n't, I am thinking still, 

Look much like meeting-men." 

Happy-go-lucky, careless chaps 

Off on a ''jolly lark," 
Made thoughtful for a space, perhaps, 



A STREET INCIDENT 105 

By the child's naive remark. 
Who knows but in some world of light, 

In great books registered, 
Are solemn vows, inspired that night 

By Archie's simple word I 




¥o .>li^^ >[ellie >f- 



" Heart-whole," you say yon are, my friend, 
But really I must doubt it. 
What ! Such an arrant flirt as you ? 
The idea I why, I scout it I 

Nell, you know you can 't deny 
But once you had a jiassion 

For poor St. John ; you know 't was when 
Mustaches were the fashion. 

That student, too, who studied more 

His fair inamorata 
Than all the storied lore of his 

Neglected Alma Mater. 

And then the way you served poor Hall, 

You surely can 't forget it, 
And I shall not be much surprised 

If sometime you regret it. 



TO MISS NELLIE N. 107 

There was a poet, too, you know. 

With whom you sometimes flirted. 

Let's see, who next ? 0, 't was for Brown 
The poet you deserted. 

And he, I doubt not, soon will find 
That once a girl had tricked him, 

Wliile you, you coquette, glance around 
To find another victim. 

"Heart-whole," indeed I Why, it must be 
Divided 'raong so many, 
That I am sometimes half in doubt 
If ever you had any I 



Sill}^ ^r^d I. 



O I MANY a romi)ing frolic, 

Have we had in the days gone by. 
Through meadow and field and woodland 

My beautiful Billy and I. 
How fleetly he leaped the fences I 

How carefully over the stream 
He carried his little mistress, 

Who was fearless as he, I ween I 

Then I gathered the wildwood flowers 

His proud little head to deck, 
Or wove them into a chaplet 

To hang round his arching neck. 
Ah me ! in the days of childhood. 

What very good friends were we I 
For I own that I loved little Billy, 

And Billy, I 'm sure, loved me. 

He would lay his head on my slioulder 
In a gentle, caressing way, 



BILLT AND I. 109 

Using such wiles to coax me 

Again to tlie fields to play. 
I many a trick I \e served him, 

And many has he served me ; 
For a more mischievous Billy 

One never would wish to see. 

Once in the spirit of mischief, 

To see if lie had any fears 
Of his wild, tyrannical mistress, 

I ventured to box his ears. 
He waited until I mounted. 

Then gave me a roguish look. 
And then with a bound he threw me 

Plump into tiie shallow brook. 

! many a romping frolic 

We 've had in the days gone by. 
Through meadow and field and woodland — 

My dear little pony and I. 
Ah, well-a-day I Time has changed us, 

Since the days when together we played, 
For Billy is now oai old farm horse, 

And I am old and staid. 



¥l|e Vekdl^ei^'^ Soliloquy. 



( With Variations.) 



0, WHAT high pride and pleasure I shall find 
In watching here development of mind ! 
How grand the task to lead these tender youth 
In paths of wisdom and in ways of truth I 
My soul expands ; the whole I contemplate ; 
To what great destiny, what noble fate, 
I may direct, I would these little lives — 
*' Teacher, Ben Norton 's ben a swoppin' knives." 

Some little pecadilloes I shall see, — 
" ! Jennie Knight 's a stickin' pins in me I " 
But I '11 not check their sweet, impulsive ways 
Too rudely — rather will I seek to praise 
When praise I can — and blame where blame is due- 
" Teacher, Nell Burt 's a makin' mouths at you ! " 
The saucy midget ! But they like their fun ; 
Still they must be demure now school '& begun. 

Incipient poet, orator and sage 

May be 'neath my assiduous tutelage — 



THE TEACHERS SOLILOQUY. Ill 

Embryo presidents, perhaps, are here — 
"0, teacher, Eddie Griffen boxed my ear ! " 
"Study your book, my love." " Lesson ain't in it." 
"Please, marm, may I go aout abaout a minute?" 

I must be patient ! Rule my own soul well ; 

Thus shall an influence on their young hearts tell. 

Wisely and lovingly I '11 guide their feet 

To learning's fount, to Helicon's water sweet — 
"0, Carrie Merrill 's eatin' sugar plumbs! " 
"Ain't neither! only juthst I thucked my thumbs!" 

The little elf ! My poor brain fairly whirls — 
" Dan Eice is throwin' kisses to the girls!." 
"That leetle feller hit me with his fist ! " 

0, what a crazy bedlam ! School 's dismissed ! 




I<ittle Ii^i^l) iv^tie. 



A CHILD came in at the open door. 

And bashfully stood on the school-room floor ; 

Tattered, and barefoot, and freckled, and tanned, 

A worn old book in her dimpled hand. 

But / saw nothing as she stood there, 

Only her marvelous, beautiful hair. 

It seemed like a misplaced glory, lent 

Perhaps from the head of her patron saint, 

Eed as a flame, and bright as gold, 

Over her shoulders bare it rolled 

In ripple, and curl, and sunbright wave 

With the auburn warmth o'er which artists rave. 

Sunburnt and plain was the Irish child. 
Her form uncouth and her manners wild, 
Kude, and neglected, and poor, and mean, 
Was all of life she had ever seen. 
But a princess royal miglit have prayed 
For the crown of that little Irish maid. 



LITTLE IRISH KATIE. 113 

She sat just there, by the school-room wall. 

There where the softest light doth fall 

Down through the elm tree's trailing tress, — 

The ragged lassie would little guess 

I put her there for the strong effect 

Of sun and shadow, all mottled and flecked. 

All changing and wonderful, with its beams 
Losing themselves amid warmer gleams 
Of the tangled, auburn mass of hair, 
That fell like a halo around her there, — 
Yes — there she sat, with a studious look, 
Poring over her spelling-book. 

One day I missed her ; — the small, bright head 
With its wealth of curls, on a poor child's bed 
Was tossing and moving in wild unrest ; 
And then a Presence — a phantom guest 
Came in at the door — and then they said 
Little Irish Katie, alas ! was dead. 



W 



o/i\o 



r\ D 1 e . 



When tlie roses bloom again, 

One will stand here by my side, 
I shall bear another name, 

I shall be a happy bride. 
He will haste from lands afar, 

Soon as roses are abloom, 
From the fearful sounds of war, 

Shrieking shell, and cannon boom. 

He will come with glory crowned. 

And to me the brave deeds tell. 
Often in the gloaming hour. 

When together we shall dwell. 
Ah, dear Lord : Thou deign'st to fill 

My life chalice to the brim ; 
One request I crave Tliee still : 

Oh, let me be worthy him ! 

When the roses bloom again ; — 

Thus she thought but did not speak. 



ANNIE. 115 

And tiie bright blood sent its tiame 

Upward into either cheek — 
While upon her bridal robe 

Deftly those young fingers wrouglit ; 
Wove she, in its broiderie, 

Many a prayer and thought. 

0, the noble life, and liigli, 

That went out that self-same night, 
Underneath the Southern sky. 

On a bloody field of flight ! 
Still she sang, in cadence sweet. 

Sweet and low down in her heart : 
Soon my Hero I shall meet. 

Never, never more to part I 

When the rose blooms came again. 

Ere their earliest scent had died, 
Ah ! she bore another name, 

Ah I she was a fair, fair bride. 
Still and cold, yet fair and sweet. 

Not in dainty, wedding dress. 
But in ghastly winding sheet. 

Lay she in her loveliness. 

Beautiful upon her bier, 

With tlie pale buds in her hair. 



116 ANNIE. 

Annie I we had called her here, 

Angel I they would know her there. 

Maidens twelve, in solemn train. 
Bearing rose blooms white and red. 

Chanted low a sad refrain, 

As they circled round the dead. 

Miserere I Miserere I 
Heaven is bright, if Earth is dreary — 

Take her now. oh Earth our Mother, 
Thou wilt fold her as none other. 

Till the judgment, keep our trust, 
This beloved, holy dast. 

Warden I unto whom is given 
What unlocks the gate of Heaven, 

Open your celestial portal. 
For the ransomed soul, immortal ! 
Miserere ! Miserere I 

Heaven is bright, though Earth be dreary. 



As Told by my Grandfather. 

Old Cooper King had a briglit little son, 
A mischievous juvenile brimming with fun; 
But one drop of bitterness poisoned his joy 
When he thought of himself as a poor drunkard's 
boy. 

Oft he was sent to the small village store, 
Thro' woods dark and lonely, a mile or more, 
With a jug half hidden, ingeniously. 
And his own sad musings for company. 

Bluebird, and robin, and bobolink gay. 
Swallow and thrush, at oach break of day, 
Filled all the welkin u'ith pteans sweet 
As ever a mortal ear did greet. 

They sang so madly above his head, 
That he fell to interpreting what they said. 
And thought their melody mocking him, 
As he trod the ])ath thro' the forest dim. 



118 A TEMPERANCE TALE. 

One briglit June morn the empty old jug 
Was hidden again 'neatli the elbow snug ; 
But the nimble feet were tardy and slow, 
Till his father thundered, "Why do n't you go ?' 

''Cos," whimpered the child, as he trembling stood, 
"Please, sir, I'm afraid to go through the wood.'' 
" What now?'' yelled King, with a drunken leer. 
"Cos somethin' talks to me awful queer. 

"It says," (and he keyed his voice u]) high, 
And looked in his fathers bloodshot eye,) 
. 'Where you going? where you going?' 
'Down t'the store I down t' the store !' 
' What after ? what after ?' 

• Bottle o' rum I bottle o' rum I' 
'Who's it for? wlio's it for?' 

' Cooper King 1 Cooper King I ' 
'Drink it up I Drink it up I' 

* Send again I Send again I ' 

' ( Uie-arge it I Che-arge it I ' " 

'T was the little brown thraslier, a comical rogue, 
Whose song the boy chattered in dialogue ; 
And such was the mortified man's chagrin, 
'T is said he forever quit drinking gin. 



S ^eiiqoi'y.. 



To-day I heard an organ's tone. 

Tender and tremulous and low. 
Making a scarce articulate moan. 

So soft and sweet, so sad and slow. 

Then wild and passionate it tlowed, 

As if behind its brazen breast 
A lieart all human burned and glowed 

With strange and feverish unrest. 

Anon a pleading, piteous cry. 

And then a grand triumpiuil strain, 

Then sinks to a delicious sigh 

That faints and breathes and faints again. 

Tlie many-throated organ spoke 

Of wliat naught else can speak to me ; 

Its mellow cadences awoke 
A l;)uried precious memory. 



120 A MEMORY. 

Spoke of an old church, vast and dim ; 

Spoke of a g-oklen sunset hour; — 
I heard not priest, but only him 

Who swept those chords with wondrous power. 

Through stained glass the sunset clouds 

A tide of gorgeous glory rolled. 
Altar and shrine were wrapt in shrouds 

Of amber, ametliyst and gold. 

Silent and thrilled with rapturous awe, 

I sat in love's sweet mystery — 
For eye has answered eye — I saw 

Those chords were struck for me. 

They spoke to me through that wild strain, 
They poured out all my heart's desire ; 

Spoke till joy grew exquisite pain. 

Spoke from a mad youth's heart of tire. 

The Voluntary died away, 

Tender and sweet it died at last. 
The sunset clouds had turned to gray, 

When from the dim old chui'ch we passed. 



^l\on Si^t >iy Qod. 



Oh God, thon art my God ; thou art thy own blessed- 
ness, the center of thy own desires, and the boundless 
spring of thy own happiness. Tliou art immutable and 
infinitely perfect, and tlierein consists thy blessedness 
and glory ; but thou art my God ; it is from thence flows 
all my consolation ; this glorious privilege is my dignity 
and boast. Thou art my God, and I will praise thee. 
I love thee, and I will exalt thee. I have all things, in 
possessing thee ; I And no want, no void witliin : my 
wishes are answered, and all my desires appeased, when 
I believe my title to thy favor secure. 

Whatever tempests arise, whatever darkness surrounds 
me, yet tliou art my God. I cry to thee, and the storms 
cease, and the darkness vanishes. 

I find my expectations from the World disapjwinted, 
friends false, and human dependence vain ; but still thou 
art my God, my unfailing confidence, my rock, my ever- 
lasting inheritance. Death and the Enemy hurl their 
darts against me ; but. witli a fearless and tranquil heart. 



122 TIIOU ART MY GOD. 

I cry. Thou art my God ; I dwell on high ; my place of 
defense is the mnnitiuns of rocks. 

While thou art mine, what can I fear ? Can Omnipo- 
tence be vancpiished ? can almighty strength be opposed ? 
When it can, then, and not till then, shall I want secur- 
ity ; then, and not till then, shall my confidence be shaken 
and my hopes confounded. Thou art my God ; let me 
again repeat the glorious accents, and hear the pleasura- 
ble sounds ; let me a thousand and a thousand times 
repeat it : it is rapture all, and harmony. The harps of 
angels and their tongues, what notes more melodious 
could they sing or play, what but these transporting 
words give the emphasis to all their joys ? On this they 
dwell ; it is their eternal theme. 

Thou art my God. Like me every seraph boasts the 
glorious property, and owes his happiness to those impor- 
tant words; in them unbounded joys are comprehended. 
Paradise itself, all heaven, is here described ; all that is 
possible to be uttered of celestial blessedness is here con- 
tained. 

My God, my ti'iuni])!! and my glory, let others boast 
of what they will, and pride themselves in human secur- 
ities ; let them place their confidence in their wealth, 
their honor, and their numerous friends ; I renounce all 
earthly dependence, and glory only in my God. 

When death shall remove all other supports, and force 
me to quit my title to the dearest names below, in my 
God I shall have an unchangeable property ; that en- 



77/0 r ART 31 Y GOD. l!i3 

gagemeiit shall remain firm, when I shall loose my 
hold of other engagements. Then, all human things 
will vanish with an everlasting flight ; I shall bid them 
a joyful adieu, and breathe out my soul with this tri- 
umphant exclamation: Thou art my God, my eternal 
possession I Nor death, nor any thing, shall ever separate 
me from thy love. 

Thou art my God. Let me survey the extent of my 
blessedness ; let me take a prosi)ect of my vast posses- 
sion ; let me consider its dimensions. Oh height ! oh 
depth I oh length I and breadth immeasurable ! I have 
all that is worth possessing. Thou art my God. But 
what have I uttered ? Is mortality permitted to speak 
these daring words ? Can any of the human race make 
such glorious pretensions ? Thou tliyself canst give no 
more, — thou that art thy own happiness, and the spring 
of joy to all thy creatures ; with thee are the fountains 
of pleasure, and in thy presence is fullness of joy. Im- 
mortal life and happiness flow from thee ; and they are 
necessarily blessed who are surrounded with tliy favor. 
Thou art their God, and thou art my God to everlasting. 




^urnilk.y ^Ioi'i\ir\g. 



0, BLESSINGS on tlie wrtter-ciire I 
Refreshing, cool, abundant, pure ; 
Tliat cleanses from the grime, and soil, 
And clinging trace of week-day toil ; 
I revel in the healthful flood, 
And think meanwhile of Jesus' blood 
For mortal stains ; 0, in His sight, 
To-day may I be clean and white. 

Before the looking-glass I. stand. 

And brush long tresses througli my liand 

The mirror, with no flaw nor crack, 

A faitliful copy answers back ; 

0, that I miglit, without defect, 

My Saviour's image thus reflect ; 

Not with distoi-ted. fltful show, 

Hut true enough for all to know. 

Comely and clean, externally, 
1 've often, always longed to be ; 



SUNDAY MORNING. 125 

But do I ("ire to l)e, meaiiwliile. 
Inwardly fair and free from guile ? 
But yesterday I saw some lace 
I wanted more than Christian grace ! 
Or some insignia of wealth, 
Desired far more than moral health ! 

I think the enemy comes to us, 
Sometimes with childish trifles thus ; 
And we, off guard, and unawares, 
Fall into such transparent snares. 
0, shame I Sad, sorry shame, that I 
Should e'er forget my calling high ! 
Forgive, forget, Saviour dear. 
The pitfalls that I come so near ! 

Now he the garments fresh and clean. 

Seemly and plain, to worship in I 

It does not matter what the dress. 

So I have Jesus' righteousness ; 

And though some curious eyes might stare, 

I 'm glad there 's One who does n't care, 

Who knoweth life consisteth not 

In what we have, or have n't, got. 

Of perishing and worldly store. 
Help me to covet nothing more 
Than Thy far-reaching scrutiny, 



12H SUNDAY MORNING. 

Dear Master, seetli best for me. 

The bells are ringing, sweet and wild, 

Heaven^s call to many a homesick child ; 

Hither to church we fondly come ; 

'T is Father's house — and therefore home. 

Now give the "hearing ear," I pray, 
For what the good man has to say ; 
Give the appreciative mind, 
Swift to discern, and sure to tind 
Kernels of truth, and seeds of good 
Presented for the spirit's food ; 
And may this Sabbath morn draw me 
Solemnly, sweetly, nearer Thee, 



Willie or) tlie Sliir\ii|g Slioi'e. 



0, MAMMA, darling iiuimnui, I have reached the 

Better Land — 
Just as I seemed to sink away, and slip from your 

fond hand, 
Just as my little feet had touched the cold, cold 

wave of death. 
And when, with one poor broken gasp, I yielded up 

my breath, 
The gentle Shepherd met me, and He took me 

safely o^er ; 
Close sheltered in His bosom, I gained the Shining 

Shore ; 
And through all the Valley^s shadows, and the 

River's dreaded flow, 
1 had no thought of danger, for I trusted Jesus so. 

And, mamma, could you see me now, with Faith's 
untroubled eye. 



128 WILLIE OJV THE SHINm'^G SHORE. 

You would check your bitter grieving, you would 

hush the choking sigh, 
And with more than mortal radiance your tearful 

face would shine, 
Could you look on Heaven's glories, and know its 

bliss is mine. 
I know you miss me in the home you builded there 

below. 
And Willie's room is but a place for anguished tears 

to flow ; 
Your house is empty of its joy, your heart is very 

sore, 
For you miss dear little Willie so, but Heaven would 

miss him more. 



And I can not fold my glistening wings and hush the 

golden lyre, 
That I have learned to strike so rapturously, with 

all the angel choir, 
I can not leave my victor's crown, my robes of 

shining white, 
Touched in every fold with glory such as ne'er 

blessed mortal sight. 
For my ransomed spirit would not dare to risk its 

chance again, 
'Mid Earth's manifold temptations, its trials, and 

its pain ; 



WILLIE ON THE SHINING SHORE. 129 

But I 'm safe beyond all sorrow, and sin, and sick- 
ness here, 

And my feet can never go astray, in Heaven, mamma, 
dear. 

So yon will not grieve too sorely, Avith great sobs 

and anguish wild. 
Mamma, Papa, you are coming some day hither, to 

your child — 
And the years will not be joyless, nor too long and 

lone your stay. 
If you still can trust the Master, witli submissive 

hearts alway ; 
Then, when all the journey 's ended, and you reacli 

the pearly gate, 
Just within the glowing portal. Mamma, Papa, I 

shall wait ; 
And while all the angel legions smite their sweet, 

sweet, harps anew, 
I. your little angel Willie, will be first to welcome 

vou. 



9 




Oi\ f^eceivii]g ai) Sr|or)3^ii|ou^ G[ift. 



My boiinie big box, my box of bine, 

Pray, wbere did you come from, what are you ? 

An irreverent school-boy's joke, mayhap. 

Venting his genius in trick or trap. 

Up with the cover, off with the lid, 

I '11 see what secret is 'neath it hid I 

What mischievous scheme is here I "II know I 

If any young rebel dares to Oh ! 

What intoxicating perfume is this ? 
Like tlie breath of a goddess, a fairy's kiss ; 
Like airs from vintage hills afar, 
Methinks these spicy breathings are ; 
They might have floated from Italy's sliore. 
Or from grapes of Eshcol in Scripture lore ; 
And something more than imj^risoned wine 
Lurks in these bounties of the vine. 
Uprising now with the fruity smell, 
A subtle something that blendeth well, 
A blessed and charming attribute. 
Not always found with pleasant fruit ; 



ON RECEIVIN6 AN ANONYMO US GIFT. 131 

Tliis cloth my heart a captive lead. 
The fragrance of a loving deed. 
Each tiny globe, and each purple sphere. 
Nestled in tempting clusters here, 
Enfoldeth something sweeter far 
Than even its own rich juices are ; 
Something in ambush 1 can see, 
A thought — a friend's dear thought for me ; 
Outweighing pearls from ocean grot. 
That friendly, beautiful, kindly thought. 
Here's white and purple and red and blue, 
With every shade and in every hue ; 
Cheek against cheek in their ripened bloom, 
Drunk in tlieir own exquisite perfume ; 
Here's '* Agawam," " Wilder," and *• Delaware," 
Tucked in with graceful skill and care, 
With "Merrimac," "Concord," "Allen's," "lona," 
But never a hint of the cunning donor; 
But I can guess whose generous hand 
And heart, my bonnie blue box, have planned, 
Whose dainty fingers and artist eye, 
Grouped cluster on cluster lavishly ; 
"Not letting even the left hand know," 
Because the Master hath taught her so. 
In her gracious and loving ministry, 
Nameless and silent, as sphinx could be. 
Ah, bonnie blue box, and treasures bright. 
You 're filling my mouth, and my heart, to-niglit. 



Oil Wkteli fJill. 



I SIT and watch the ships go by, 

Gliding so softly o'er the sea, 
I hear tlie breakers swelling high 

A moaning all so drearily — 

And all my soul is tilled with pain ; 

For I recall my vanislied youtli. 
When my ship sailed upon the main 

Freigiited with love and trust and trutli. 

Proudly she sat u])on life's wave, 

A goodly ship and fair to see. 
Years passed, long years, and nothing save 

A broken wreck returned to me. 

O bitterness and grief untold I 

I drag out still a life of woe, 
E'er since the angry waters rolled 

Above my hopes of long ago. 



ON WATCH HILL. 188 

Vainly I cry to Eartli and Heaven, 

Vainly I fly from P]ast to West ; 
To my sad soul no peace is given, 

For me tlie wild Earth holds no rest. 

And thus beside the Sea, alone, 

I sit through long hours silently. 
In harmony with ocean's moan 

Telling her mournful tales to me. 

Far cm the blue hori/coii line 

A white sail toward me seems to float. 

Some heart it thrills — but, oh I not mine — 
Some fond eyes watch that distant boat — 

Some lips grow prayerful as she sails, 

Perhaps before unused to pray, 
And plead Heaven's gentlest, kindest gales 

To follow on her shining way. 

But on the white beacii just below, 

A ruined, stranded vessel lies ; 
Toward her my sympathies shall flow, 

For her the tears swell in my eyes. 

Her usefulness and l)eauty o'er, 

Des})oiled of all her grace and pride, 



134 ON WATCH HILL. 

81ie],'ll triumph on the wave no more, 
No more the restless waters ride. 

The sea gulls spread their snowy wings, 
And shi])s go on to ports unknown ; 

The summer zephyr weirdly sings, 
Mv sad thoughts chant an undertone. 

I look afar, with liopeless eye. 

Across the boundless, heaving sea; 

No ship of mine can I descry, 
No loving soul looks out for me. 

sea, moan on, forever moan. 

And tell your sorrows o'er and o'er ! 

Methinks your grief is like mine own. 
To be forgotten never more. 




¥l\aixk^gmi)^ ^enqoi'ie^. 



I GLANCE arouiul tlie festal board, 
But one is missing there — 

We need not wait — there still will be 
One little, empty chair. 

Twelve months ago this very time. 

We laid our pet away. 
never can my heart forget 

Tliat sad Thanksgiving day. 

And then the " Merry CUiristmas" came, 
And then the gay New Year's; 

But unto us the holidays 

Brought naught but grief and tears. 

What had we then for which to lift 
Our heai'ts in thankfulness ? 

What was there left in earth and heaven 
For whicli our God to bless? 



l;^H THANKSGIVING MEMORIES. 

Was he a God of love wlio tliiis 
Could take our only one ? 

To til us deserve such chastisement, 
What great sin had we done ? 

Hush, murmuring lieart, and learn to say : 

" E'en tho' Thou slayest me. 
And tho' our sorrows multiply, 
Yet will we trust in Thee." 

Dear little boy ! a year in Heaven I 
Why, then, should we repine ? 

'T is better thus — and yet 1 would 
Thy sinless deatli were mine, 

I would that in thy (piiet grave 
This weary heart might lie ; 

But patience, heart ! and bide thy time. 
Thou 'It rest there, by-and-by. 

November, 1859. 




Cliti^tii)k0 C^tol 



FOR A CHILD. 



Far away to tlie eastward, 

In the beautiful Orient land, 
Tlie land that is rich in tradition 

And legends, so old and so grand, — 
Far back in the long past ages, 

One luminous, starry morn, 
In this land of historic glory. 

The Prince I serve was born. 

Not in a lordly castle — 

Not in a palace fine — 
Not in a home ancestral, 

Was born this Prince of mine; — 
Not on a monarch's i)illow 

They laid his royal head ; 
Not on a couch of costly down — 

But — in a manser — bed. 



1H<S CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

And kingly robes He wore not. 

Nor ever a jeweled crown ; 
Nor bore He scepter or signet. 

This Prince of strange renown. 
Yet kingdoms, strong and ancient. 

And the whole Eartli's throned ])owers. 
Shook, to th.cir mighty centers, 

P'or tliis mightier Prince of ours. 

So, ever through all the ages. 

We celebrate His birth, 
Who. though he slept in a manger. 

Was Lord of all heaven and earth. 
And ever under His banner 

We '11 fight against every sin. 
Till into our dear Lord's kingdom 

He slathers His children in. 



^A^riUen between lO and 12 o'clock on the 
81st of December, I860. 



Hark, tlie deatli-knell now is ringing 

Of the old year. I would heed it 
E'er the new one comes in, bringing 

Its new duties. I would profit 
By remembering all the blessings 

With which God has strewn my way,- 
How he's watclied me, without ceasing, 

Kept from danger, night and day. 

I "d remember, death's dark angel 

Has not entered my loved home ; 
God has spared my dear ones still ; 

I 'm not left in grief alone, 
I remember now, with sorrow. 

Other days and other years 
When no light dawned on tlie morrow. 

But mv heart was filled with fears. 



140 THOUGHTS ON WATCH NIGHT. 

Life's charm was broken ; in the grave 

Was buried all my earthly hopes. 
God's word alone had power to save ; 

His arm could bear the mourner up. 
0, I thank thee, blessed Saviour, 

F'or thy promises of love 
To the weary, heavy laden ; 

There is rest for them above. 

I have often sinned against thee, 

Often grieved thy Holy Spirit. 
Now, I beg thee, forgive me, 

Tlirough my Saviour's dying merit. 
Grant me grace to live more holy, 

Grace to keep these solemn vows ; 
More like Jesus, meek and lowly. 

Humbly to God's will I 'd bow. 



These lines were written between 12 and 
2 o'clock, January 1st, 1861. 

Now, the new year. I have entered. 

Tlie ])ast has gone, with joys and cares. 
Borne to Heaven its truthful record. 

My many sins are written there ; 



THOUGHTS ON WATCH NIGHT. 141 

But all across the long, dark list 

Now is written — "All forgiven."' 
Now feels my heart this consciousness. 

And with joy can think of Heaven. 

With faith in God and the golden rule 

To guide my steps, with a loving heart 
And cheerful face, through life's rough school 

Kind words to all, bear well my part 
In life's great contest ; forgetting never 

Those who 've crossed death's chilly river, — 
Not parted forever, gone only before, 

Await my coming, on the other shore. 




IqtT'odudtoi^y foi' Sai\tti Clku^. 



FOR A LITTLE BOY. 



Last night tlie fairies came to me, and told a won- 

drons tale 
Of a qneer and qnaint old fellow, all clad in frozen 

mail ; 
With.beantifnl and varied gifts his back was laden 

high ; 
And they said we all should know him by the 

twinkle in his eye. 

Then their small bells seemed to tinkle, and the 
fairies danced away, 

While I dreamily lay, thinking of that^rs^ Christ- 
mas day, 

When some shepherds on the mountains, in the 
morning star-light clear, 

Went to find their gift from Heaven — the Christ- 
babe of Judea. 



INTRODUCTORY FOR SANTA GLAUS. 14;i 

0, how sweet to think of Jesus I when we 're :ill so 

liappy made 
By the Cliristmas gifts and greetings I 
But I see you are afraid 
I shall spin too long a story. 80 here I "11 make a 

pause, 
To introduce our jolly friend, the brave old Santa 

Clans. 

1865. 




Cl)ktle^ Sowafd Wkfi4i)ei^. 



Drowned July 8, 1866, aged 11 years. 



Kp:st I rest I young brother. 

Sweetly, safely rest I 
Not in arms of Mother, 

Not on Father's breast I 
Not where dream or vision 

Sliall thy sleep annoy ; 
But in fields Elysiun, 

Rest I our darling boy I 

Death's cruel river. 

With its ice-cold wave, 
Made thy young heart sliiver. 

In its watery grave. 
But Jesus met thee 

On the brigliter shore, 
Then why regret tiiee, 

Blest forever more I 



CHARLES HOWARD WARRjyER. 145 

Peace I jieace I bereaved ones. 

"T was the Father's will ; 
For all Earth's grieved ones 

He has comfort still. 
When God shall need you, 

Charlie's little hand 
May be the first to lead you 

To the angel band. 



10 




Vo }JLy ^tiQ^^ Sdfo^^ tl]e W^y, 



ON HER WEDDING DAY, JAN. 2, 1867. 



'T IS a fair and chilclisli brow. 
Wreathed with bridal flowers now, 
And a serious, timid grace 
Seems to gather on her face ; 
For the solemn words are sjjoken. 
Never, trust we, to be broken I 

Blessings on thee, bonny Ijride I 
Prayers and blessings multiplied I 
Sacred promise, holy Vow, 
Each to each, ye 've given now, 
Vowed to honor, love, and cherish - 
Till this changeful life shall perish. 

Trusting, loyal little wife I 
Farewell now the girlish life. 
Farewell now its childish joys. 
All that maiden thoughts employs. 



TO MY FRIEND ON HER WEDDING DAY. 147 

With another's fate is blended 
Thine, henceforth, till fate is ended. 

No foreboding doubts or fears, 
Clouds for the blithe New Year — 
Be it fraught with weal or woe, 
Smiles or tears, we may not know. 
Yet we tenderly confide thee. 
To the strong, fond heart beside thee. 

May this tender, new relation 
Make all hajDpy compensation 
For the loss of Father, Mother, 
Gentle Sister, loving Brother ; 
And the Husband be to you 
Ever noble, good and true. 

Heaven's eternal care be o'er thee ! 
Whatsoever be before thee ! 
Angels fold their wings above thee. 
And the good Lord ever love thee I 
And a happy, useful life. 
Crown the bride, a perfect wife ! 



I< i n e ^ 



TO 
MR. AND MRS. CHARLES C. BARRETT, 

On the death of their little girl, who died at South Hadley 
Falls, February 25th, 1868, aged three years. 



Little Gektie, 
Baby, sleep I And softyly rest 
On His gentle, loving breast, 
Who the little chiklreu bless. 

Fold your dainty, waxen palms ! 
Mother's fond, encircling arms * 
Conld not save from all eartli's harms ! 

Sweet as sweetest flowers that l)low ! 
Pure as'Heaven's whitest snow I 
And they loved you, loved you so ! 

Every winning, childisli grace, 

In your little cold, still face, 

Now with ])roken liearts thev trace. 



ox THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 149 

With a mother's doting care, 

Curl once more the soft, briglit liair 

Round the childish brow so fair. 

To their long and calm repose, 
Those sweet eyes, oh ! softly close — 
And your life — how dark it grows 1 

All the toys she used in play 
Lay in blinding tears away — 
Ah I that sJie should know decay I 

Ah ! that she, the darling one. 
Must he hidden from the sun 
Underneath the church-yard stone I 

Is she there ? Xo ; never more 
Think it, mother, grieved and sore, — 
She 's " not lost, but gone before. "' 

Baby sleeps I but is not dead I 
Mother-heart, be comforted ; 
Cease regretful tears to shed. 

After days of toil and pain, 

You with ransomed ones may reign. 

And mav have vour child again I 



¥lie gilvei^ Weddiii^. 



( S. L. P.) 



LooKixG backward down the dim aisles of the 

shadowy vanished years, 
Many a picture, fair and lovely, oft before my mind 

appears ; 
And the vision that comes floating back to Memory 

to-night. 
Had I but a limner^s pencil, I would sketch in colors 

bright ; — 

Where, in mansions quaint and olden, lights are 

flashing to and fro ; 
Figures robed in festive raiment o'er the threshold 

come and go ; 
All the chivalry and beauty of the flne old country 

place, 
With their youth and joy and laughter, meet a 

weddino- scene to arace. 



THE SILVER WEDDING. 151 

Soon a white gleam and a rustle — then, on all as 

silence falls, 
Bride and bridegroom now are coming down the 

wide, old-fashioned hall, 
And unshadowed brows grow earnest while a few 

low words are said. 
Then a prayer and benediction, and the twain one 

flesh are wed. 

Years glide on, and children gather in the new and 
pleasant home. 

Scarce a shadow on the hearthstone of their dwell- 
ing dares to come. 

Calm and placid flows their life-stream, blessed in 
basket and in store. 

Xo death summons breaks the circle from the dim 
and unknown shore. 

Still the years glide ever onward till the Silver 

Wedding day 
Dawns as blithely as the other in the Past so far 

away. 
And the messages are scattered 'mong the old 

friends far and wide. 
Bidding home full many a matron who went forth 

a bonny bride ; 

Bidding home full many a hero to Northampton's 
hills once more. 



152 THE SILVER WEDDING. 

Where beneath its Ijold twin mountains he may call 

back days of yore. 
And forget his care-seamed forehead and the dear 

wife's fading eye. 
Dreaming they are boy and maiden as in years so 

long gone l)y. 

Thus it was the white -winged missive bringing 

pleasantly to mind 
Many a fond association of the 'days of " Auld Lang 

8yne " 
Came to us — and we would gather fain with you. 

did time allow — 
But accept our hearty greetings and the wishes 

offered now. 

May your onward path be upward, and your lives 

with usefulness 
Be so rich and full and fragrant, all the i^oor your 

names shall bless. 
May your feet tread thornless roses down life's 

gradual decline. 
And good deeds fill uj) the remnant of the days 

which still are thine. 

When at last these glad occasions here for evermore 

shall cease, 
Like a river's steady current be your soul's unruffled 

peace. 



THE SILVER WEDDING. 



158 



Xor your ]jarks lie long divided which so long have 

sailed life's sea. 
When you launch out on the ocean that we call 

Eternity. 

186D. 




{^kfewel] to tlie Old Clim^cl). 



And now farewell — a fond farewell, to this long hal- 
lowed place 

AVhere oft the Lord hath deigned to bless His people 
with his grace ; 

Wliere many a weary, sin-sick soul and many a 
heavy heart 

Witli Mary, loved of Jesus', hath chosen the better 
part. 

And some, I know, who erst with us these sacred 

aisles have trod, 
A sainted band, now worship in the City of our 

God, 
In toni^iles builded not with iuinds, eternal in the 

skies. 
Where, by the healing stream of Life, celestial 

l)alms arise. 

So as tlie old cliurch crumbles and we gather here 
no more. 



FAREWELL TO THE OLD CHURCIL 155 

We '11 cherish blessed memories of loved ones gone 

before ; 
We "11 gratefully remember how the Lord hath met 

us here, 
And trust his wonderous mercy for every future 

year. 

Now, in the holy Master's work, let every one 
engage, 

From fair-haired child and rosy youth to silver- 
headed age ; 

And every face set Zionward, we '11 strive to follow 
them 

Who have gone to worship yonder in the New 
Jerusalem. 

November, 1S69. 




S ftolidav. 



Billy is at tlie door. •• All aboard I "" And there 's a 
hurried fastening of hats under back iiair, a donning of 
gauntlets and dusters, and the ''women folks," with 
Willie, the little guest, are off for a holiday. 

" What shall we do with the house?" asks careful 
Marmee, who generally bides at home. '' Why, we can 't 
take it with us I " responds Lucy. " I '11 look out for it," 
calls pater familias in a stentorian voice, making off in 
an opposite direction, and we are morally certain he will 
never think of it again until dinner time. 80 we pru- 
dently lock the doors, and with charactei'istic consistency 
leave every window open, but trust that closed blinds 
will have an inhospitable look to the traditional "tramp" 
and decide him to pass on. Sjjot wags his tail in antici- 
pation. " No, no, Spottie, you must stay on guard!" 
And the wistful look changes to one of dejected obedi- 
ence. 

Ten minutes' ride, and we are in the land of '' wooden 
nutmegs and cast-iron hams." 

Billy ambles on, in ruminating mood, and, knowing 
well the indulgent charioteer, occasionally turns aside for 



A HOLIDAY. 157 

;i mouthful of leaves from a wayside bush, or a taste of 
juicy grass by tlie road. Past shaven fields we glide, and 
pleasant farmhouses where the matrons are out amid the 
bean-poles selecting '' garden sass" for the noonday 
meal, or spreading their milk-pans to the sweetening sun ; 
through wide old country streets, with an air of prim 
respectability about the homes on either hand, and a hint 
of their owner's conservatism in the rigid rows of holly- 
hocks and sunflowers from door to gateway; anon through 
narrow lanes, fringed with uncut liuslies, eye and ear 
are caught, here by a nimble chip-monk racing with us 
along the stone wall, and there by a meadow lark, as he 
sings with roguish cunning and sweet, inimitable inflec- 
tions, "' I — ■ see you I You can "t —see — me I " 

Just at the base of a bold mountain range our way has 
been, but now we turn sharply, and begin to ascend. 
Very slowly we climb, after tlie late exciting race witli 
Bunnie. A precij^ice on our right baud, a slender railing 
dividing it from the road, and walls of forbidding ledges 
on the left. A little gloomy and weird, it seems, as if a 
highwayman's chosen spot, but lo I emerging from its 
umbrageous gloom, what a view is spread before us I We 
draAv rein and stand erect. A happy valley, by frowning, 
wooded mountains guarded, and in its midst the north 
pond of the group known as Southwick Ponds lies dimp- 
ling in the sunshine. Gazing with many ejaculations of 
delight, we descry, at wide intervals, a section of a brown 
roof, a group of cattle grazing, the white stones of a lit- 



158 A HOLIDAY. 

tie graveyard, and a distant spire lifting its slender finger 
above the foliage. But we never could stop long at such 
an altitude, and Billy is admonished to '"go on." 

Here is a nol)le homestead, and the white-headed oc- 
togenarian sits in tlie shade, a book upon his knee. 
"It's old Captain Pollus, I must speak to him," says 
Marmee, and we halt again. Many stories are told of 
this man's physical and spiritual prowess. A ''power- 
ful exhorter " in the days of early Methodism, his pres- 
ence gave an inspiration to "the means o" grace," and 
character to the community. * • I 'm reading the book o' 
the Martyrs," says the old saint. " I've read it a many 
times ; but I want to read it again.'' This man. in his 
prime, would have eclipsed modern gymnastic feats and 
"health-lifts" marvels. The boys of two generations 
later love still to tell how, when he was coming down an 
icy mountain with an ox-sled of wood, and something 
gave way threatening much damage, he loosed the "off" 
ox from the yoke, stepped into his place, and sustained his 
share of the load with the ' ' nigh " one to the foot of the 
hill. They tell, too, of his lifting a baby colt each suc- 
cessive day from its l)irth till it was a full-grown horse. 

Now we come to a country school-house. The little 
tow-heads, stealing furtive glances from the windows, 
are too great an attraction for one of our party, and by 
great grace and clemency slie is allowed to stop and visit 
the institution. 

" What shall we do, while we wait foi" her ? " 



A HOLIDAY. 15V) 

" Do n"t you wuiit some water ?'" 

" I do," says Willie. 

" We '11 make an errand in here for some." 

How pleased about something the girl looks who comes 
to the door, as does also the matron within. A few 
greetings and out it comes : twins at this house. Just a 
week old I '• Do n't you want to see them ? " We tiptoe 
into a great shady room, with a beautiful old-fashioned, 
striped carpet possessing fifty years of history all its own, 
and there "s the cradle I We hold our breath ! The 
father reaches out a great bronzed but loving hand to 
lay of: the netting, and we stare down upon a pair of 
the daintiest, demi-semi-quavers of humanity you ever 
saw. In comes nurse, a handsome woman of fifty, with 
wavy gray hair. 

'• Is n't this Mrs. ? " 

"Yes." 

""■ I thought so ; you do n't know me. Just look at me 
a minute, though it 's twenty years since you 've seen nie." 
Marmee cudgels her brain, and ransacks the attic of her 
memory, but has to do what Pompey did with the 
conundrum, •' gub 'er u}).'" The lady jogs her treacher- 
ous recollection, and then what a hand-shaking I what 
laughing I and they launch out into a tide of retrospec- 
tions. Apprehensive of delay, we wedge in a question: 
" How far is it to Copper Hill?" " Two miles." And 
we make our adieus and joui'uey on. 

A few miniites latei". and we behold the object of 



160 A HOLIDAY. 

our excursion. This is Newgate — the okl Connecticut 
State Prison, long since abandoned for the present insti- 
tution at Wethersfiekl. Tlie iron bars and massive 
walls, even in ruins, chill us with their threatening 
aspect. We tie our steed in the shade of a. chestnut, 
and proceed to make the tour. Into the stone-paved 
court, past the tread-mill, up the dilapidated stairs of 
ancient workshops, down into subterranean bake-rooms, 
with mammoth boilers, and ovens, and cauldrons, we 
wander; up again to the jxnulerous stone-wall that was 
formerly ornamented on the top by quantities of rough, 
jagged pieces of glass cemented in edgewise, so that the 
convicts should cruelly cut their hands and be compelled 
to desist if they attemjited to escape by scaling this wall. 

Several parties are here to-day. picnicing under the 
trees across the way, or grouped with unconscious pic- 
turesqueness among the ruins. Here is a fine old coun- 
try gentleman, who jjays the chaperon vei'y acceptably 
for a little time, and contributes many an anecdote for 
our delectation. 

" I iised to come here seventy years ago," he says, 
" on a Sunday, to see them prisoners come into chapel, 
by couples, their feet shackled, and an iron chain going 
between their legs the whole length of the gang." 

'' You must have been a little fellow," we insinuate. 

"Yes, 3'es," he muses, "my father fetched the first 
prisoner that was ever brought here. He was a young 
chap ; he 'd stole twenty cents from a bar in Hartford, 



A HOLIDAY. IfU 

{incl they put him in here, down in the hole for twent)'- 
fonr hours." 

'• Tell us all about the mines." 

" Well, yon see there 's copper here," picking up a 
specimen of the ore, " but it did n't never pay for work- 
ing. Before the Revolutionary War they sent a whole 
ship-load on to England, to have it tested, and she 
wan't never heard fi-om. Then, during the Revolution, 
they used to catch the Tories and put 'em down in the 
mine for safe-keeping, before this 'ere prison was built." 

' ' Did prisoners ever escape ? " 

" Well, not easy. You see there 's a dry well down 
below, where they used to draw up the ore in buckets 
worked by horse-power. Well, they said that old Cap- 
tain Viets' daughter, that lived in that big house you 
see across the road ('t was a tavern then), fell in love 
with one of the prisoners and helped him to escape up 
that dry well. Then some of 'em did try to mine out 
'way through the mountain. They was all put down in 
the hole to sleep always, and I expect some o' the desprit 
ones used to spend a good part o' the nights borin'. 
Leastwise the keepers discovered they 'd tunneled a right 
smart distance." 

" Did you ever hear me tell Abbe's story, girls ?" says 
Marmee. 

" Yes, ages ago, but tell it again." 

" Your grandmother and I were paring apples late 
one night. I was about sixteen. The boys, your Uncles 
11 



162 A HOLIDAY. 

Thad and Lucius and Henry, had been off to general 
training tliat day. and had come home tired, and hung 
their coats up in the old kitchen. Your Aunt Delia 
had finished a fine shirt for one of tliem. and hung that 
upon a i)eg. EveiT body was al)ed l)ut we two. All at 
once we heard a noise. It was about half ))ast ek'ven. 
We listened, and soon it was repeated — a little clank. 
* Something "s wrong at the barn." says your grandmother. 
' May be some of the cattle have got loose. We won't 
call your father; you get the lantern, and we '11 go out 
and see.' So I lit the lantern. We went out to the 
barn, and found every thing all right and safe ; then we 
went in. put things to rights, aiul went to bed." 

"Next morning the new fine shirt, one of the boys' 
coats, and two or three other things, were gone'. We 
never locked a door in those days, and two days after, we 
heard that a convict had escaped from Newgate. Still, 
as we lived a dozen miles away, we hardly connected the 
two events ; but months after, when snow came, and 
they were getting out the old sleigh for use, they chanced 
to open the box and found in it a whole suit of con- 
vict's clothes, half gray and half black, you know, 
together with the shackles. It was his struggling to get 
rid of these we heard that night, though a marvel how 
he ever succeeded. Well, brother Thad put them up 
and brought them over here to Newgate, and undid them 
before the warden, who exclaimed, '' You "ve got Abbe I ' 
' No.' • But these are what he wore awav.' said the war- 



A HOLIDAY. 1H8 

den. And. girls, Abbe never was eauglit nor heard from 
to til is day." 

A family lives in the old warden's house. We inter- 
view the matron. 

•• Can we go down into the mines?" 

•• Yes, but your gowns won't be white when you come 
u}). Yon can 't go without candles. I keep em to sell 
for ten cents apiece. There ain't no man to go down 
with ye." 

Gowns are a secondary consideration, but her last sug- 
gestion becomes an imperative necessity the more we 
think of it. 

•'' I won't go down with you alone," says Lucy mys- 
teriously, and refuses to demonstrate the "why." We 
whi]> off the daisy heads with our parasols and consider. 
Meanwhile Marmee has slip^^ed off to a coujde of gentle- 
men that have just appeared on the scene. IIow she 
contrived to flatter them into compliance we shall never 
know, but the exigencies of the hour developed her tal- 
ents as the " maneuvering mamma" to a degree before 
undreamed of, and, presto I the aforesaid gentlemen 
Avere at our service. 

We go around the warden's house, down a slight de- 
clivity, and open a door into a little brick dungeon. 

We see an open trap a yard square, and a stout ladder 
leading perpendicularly into the vault. The ladder is 
fastened with iron bands into the solid rock. One after 
another we peer into the gloom and retreat appalled. 



lf)4 A HOLIDAV. 

*' Any ghosts down tliere ? " laughs the younger of our 
"impressed " gallants ; and after little badinage as to 
who shall pioneer, we make the descent, holding the 
flaring candle aloft with one desperate grip, and the 
ladder rounds with the other. The day is intensely hot, 
but a clammy cliill pervades the cavern. Our hero 
above mentioned begins to spout Shakespeare with tragic 
tones and gestures: "I am thy father's spirit," etc., 
"doing" the ghost scene in Hamlet. We clap our 
hands and cry "bravo \" and telegraph to Lucy, "col- 
lege boy." Little Willie gets a more tenacious hold of 
Lucy's hand. Sometimes we walk erect, bumping our 
heads now and then, and sometimes the rocky roof com- 
j^els us to play the quadruped while we grope through 
winding passages with spinal columns accommodated to 
the situation. The gentlemen are devoted. A ready 
liand is constantly extended to aid our uncertain move- 
ments, the sedate elder remarking, in a tone of mock 
comfort, "the pink roses on your hat are spoiled ; " and 
the younger, in sepulchral chest tones, beginning to a 

" Tale untold, whose lightest word 
Would harrow up the soul ; freeze thy young blood; 
]\luke thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres; 
Thy knotted and combined locks to part, 
And each particular hair to stand on end, 
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine." 

Willie, little man, has been brave till now, but this is the 
drop too much. He implores us to ascend . ' ' Soon, dear. " 



A HOLIDAY. 165 

Ha, yonder is a gleam of light ! We hasten forward. 
A little pond, and a light reflected upon it tlirough an 
excavation to the u^jper air, though we dare not stand 
near enough the water's edge to get a glimpse of the 
l)lue sky far above. How very cold the water is, and 
wliat a curious, limy color ! We never looked up a well 
before. A pole like a fisiiing rod lies near. The elder 
plumbs the dej)ths, and all but a few inches disappears. 
Ugh ! While from the rocks above and around, the 
drops of moisture fall into tlie tiny lake with a slow, 
solemn plash — plash. Xow and then a horrible, icy drop 
falls ui)on our necks or hands. To tliink that human 
beings have slept in this cave! Why, we can 't find an 
even surface large enough for a couch I They would die 
in such a charnel-house. Little Willie's nerves are by this 
time on the keen edge of desperation. Half ashamed 
but wholly in earnest, he puts in a plaintive little 
"' please," and we escort liini to the place of egress, give 
him a cheery word and up he goes the thirty-five feet of 
ladder like a squirrel, and is safe on terra Jinna. We, 
too, after waking the echoes, chipping off specimens, 
and exploring over the same territory, not daring to try 
a new ''gallery,"' conclude that it is time for refresh- 
ments, and ascend ; but oh, what looking objects we are 
in the light of day! We express our skepticism in re- 
gard to tills subterranean region ever having been used 
as a sleeping apartment. " Oh yes,'' we are assured, 
"and what is most remarkal)le, prisoners never took 



166 A HOLIDAY. 

cold ; and for a hundred years nothing has ever been 
known to mould down there." 

With thanks for the courtesy begged for us and kindly 
extended to us, we take leave of the gentlemen. 

" But." says the younger, " you 11 want to know with 
whom you 've been traveling all this time ; "" and there 's 
a simultaneous fumbling in pockets all round for cards. 
Luckily we are provided, but judge oar consternation on 
learning that our "college boy," is a business man some 
twenty miles away. 

We hui-iy off to laugh over the denouenioit. 

Now for lunch I " What did you put up, Lucy 
mine ? A lot, I hope, for I am nearly famished." 

"I put n}) ? Why, I thought //o?/ put up I Didn't 
you ? " (severely.) 

Here 's a predicament. 

" Now. Marmee, there 's another chance for the dis- 
play of your superior tactics." 

Over trots Marmee to the good woman across the way. 
and negotiates with her for oats for Billy, and a nice sub- 
stantial farmer's meal for ourselves. 

After demolishing the tempting viands, we turn our 
faces homeward, and, as children say in their composi- 
ti<m, "very much i)leased with our visit." 



>1y gdl}ool dliildi^ei]. 



Daisif, the starry-eyed In'iuiette. 

The darling, and universal pet ; 

And freckled Pats^y, the Irish rogue. 

With his ready wit. and his comical brogue ; 

My saintly Amiie, with eyes of blue, 

And the soul of an angel looking through ; 

xAnd little blonde Cora, all white and red, 

And a great, precocious, Websterian head ; 

And down in the front, with a fool's cap on. 

Sits the thick-headed and awkward Jnltn. 

Proud little Lizzie, with nut-brown hair 

And a style so dashing and debonaire ; 

And precious Nellie. I love so well, 

For her face so calm and spirituelle : 

And nervous Auther, never at rest, 

Yet ranks 'mong his fellows first and best ; 

Next Eddie, phlegmatic and lazy and fat, 

Knowing naught Imt mischief, and stupid at that. 

Poor, misnamed Stella, so hopelessly dull, 

With her vacant face, and her empty skull ; 



168 MY SCHOOL CHILDREN. 

Rose, the purest of all my jiearls, 
And dear, meek Lily, witli golden curls ; 
Irish Denny, the prodigy, 
And Tommie, who will a statesman be I 
Alice, the dusk, mulatto child, 
With glistening teeth and elf-locks wild ; 
Dimi)led Maude, with her hazel eyes, 
In whose depths a world of witchery lies ; 
Willie, of rare, melodious voice, 
In whose soaring song we all rejoice. 
Poor, ragged Tom, well acquaint with dirt : 
Belle, the little, incijDient Hirt ; 
Loiiise, of brilliant, glorious mind, 
Within a casket plain enshrined ; 
And Charlie, a little German son. 
The unconscious cause of lots of fun. 
For his broken speech, so full of kinks. 
And his ducking bows and his wicked winks; 
And Michael, tlie careless, with unkempt liair, 
As if' he had never a mother's care. 
So they gather, my children all, — 
Gather, each morn, at the teacher's call. 
The teacher — God help to be good and true. 
My little darlings, to all of you. 

' 1S71. 



Then said the Leader, "What has Christ done for you? what is 
He doinjr now? and what will He do for you?" 



What Christ luith done ? I can not tell thee, 
brother ; 

I can not. in my poor thought, comprehend 
All that great question ; but I know none other 

Has ever proven such a wonderous friend. 

Often, in meditation. I revolve it. 

As constant to my daily task I go ; 
But it o*er\vhelms me when I try to solve it, 

That He could love what is unlovely, so. 

With some of earth, I miglit indeed dissemble — 
Might seem to be far better than I am — 

Might possibly some fair ideal resemble, 
And still be but a miserable sham ; 

But Christ can 2)ierce all masks and foolish seeming ; 
From Him I can not hide a sinylc blot ; 



170 /iV THE CLASS ROOM. 

To any liideous stain that needs redeeming. 
Those searching, loving eves are blinded not. 

What 7m,v He done ? 0. if T could but tell tliee 1 
I was a criminal, condemned to die ; 

Guilty and wretched. But what grace Ijefell me I 
He brought my pardon from the throne on high. 

Infinite love I I do not understand it ; 

It is a deep, unfathomable mystery ; 
I only know the heart of God, who planned it. 

Found in Itself excuse, and not in me. 

What i!< He doing ? Ah, to tell that story 
A tongue of inspiration must be given, 

I can not tell thee, till in fields of glory 
My spirit is from earthly limits sliriven. 

I could as soon the myriad sea-sands number : 
Or count the ocean drops, and tell their sum ; 

Or call from mountain caves the winds that sluniljer : 
But on this theme my lips seem stricken duml). 

I would be eloquent, and ever telling 
What Christ is doing for me every day — 

What marvels He doth work ; and tlius impelling 
Some other soul to choose this blessed wav. 



IN THE CLASS ROOM. 171 

But somehow wlieu my tremljling lips are fashioned 
To speak, my words seem paralyzed and dead. 

And cold, and meaningless, and unimpassioned. 
C'cmipared with wliat I feel and would have said. 

And so I can not tell thee what He "s doing, 
Altho" 1 long to break the silent spell ; 

But that dear love is all my heart imbuing, 
I 've sometimes brokenly essayed to tell. 

What will He do ? Far more than I can mention. 

In Him my soul has never been deceived ; 
And so I have of death no apprehension. 

Because I know Him whom I have believed. 

But an under-current of sadness. 

Like a serpentine thread of })ain. 
Permeates all my gladness 

And joy in the Lamb that was slain. 
What have I done for Jesus ? 

For my years have not been few. 
What am I doing at present ? 

And what do I mean to do ? 

U, I do not want to die yet : 

I am not ready to go : 
I can not see mv sun set 



172 IN THE CLASS ROOM. 

Till I have some trophy to show — 
Some faults overcome — some graces — 

Some bundle of ripened wheat — 
Some Jewel from desert places, 

To lay at the Master's feet ; 

Some soul from the brink of perdition. 

From trials sore brought through, 
To testify my contrition 

Was genuine, deep and true. 
0, if he comes ere morning, 

Is my record such an one — 
If He comes with the solemn warning 

That my work is over and done ? 
Alas I alas I I have only 

Taught the children day by day. 
Have I sought the burdened and lonely, 

And kept them from going astray ? 
I have prayed with my little people 

Each morn the long year through ; 
Have I been uniformly gentle, 

Impartial, tender and true? 
Have I loved the wayward aud stubborn. 

As well as the undefiled ? 
Have I tried, with divine compassion. 

To win the most wretched child ? 
Looking beyond the external. 

Repulsive as it may be, 



IN THE CLASS ROOM. 173 

Have I loved them with love maternal, 

Ft)r Thee, dear Lord, for Thee ? 
And when I have, tlioughtless, wandered 

Perhaps where the tempted stood, 
Have I altogether sqnandered 

My chances for doing good ? 
Have I been to sister and brother 

All that I miglit have been, 
Proving to them that none other 

But Christ can cleanse from sin ? 
Alas for the mournful story, 

Confessed with bitterest shame ! 
What hope can I have for glory, 

Although I have named His name ? 
But I can not go empty-lianded 

Into Eternity — 
Faithless, forever branded. 

Lord, give me souls for Thee. 
0, if to-night I am summoned 

Before the eternal throne, 
I can only cry to the Master, 

Saved — but by grace idone. 



"^ 1 la . 



Bring flowers, white Howers. o'er tlie dead to vstrew. 
Only pale flowers, and pure as the snow ; 
For one who was purer and sweeter than they, 
Like a blossom, lias faded from Earth away. 

Fold a pale rose in her waxen jjalni : 
No thorn will ruttle her solemn calm : 
8catter fresh buds round her fair youuii' head : 
They are meet, they are fit for the l)eautiful dead. 

How like a bride, in her vestments white, 
She looks to your tear-dimmed, tender sight, 
Or like sculptured stone, — so passionless, cold 
And still is the heart that her robes enfold I 

Gaze on her features sublimely still. 
No shadow of sorrow, no trace of ill. 
Only a stately and grand repose. 
Unmoved by humanity's joys or woes. 



ELLA. 175 

Linger yet lovingly round her cluy. 
Whence the saintly spirit has flown away ; 
Break not, poor heart, with bitter pain. 
As you give back your darling to God again. 

But a memory sweeter than stainless flower 
Treasure forever, from this sad hour. 
Of all her sweet graces, far more dear 
Than the soulless tenement lying here. 

She sleeps, Sister I Xot in your arms 

Who would have shielded her froui Earth's harms, 

Not in her own dainty room. 

And not in the desolate, lonely tomb. 

She sleei)s I To the Saviours compassionate breast 
He gatliers His lamb to iier heavenly rest; 
well may ye cease, sad eyes, to weep, 
Berause — •''He gives His hdoved — sleep I" 



¥l\e S^lowei" of tl\e fioly gpii'it. 



In a sunny land afar, 
On the Isthmus Panama, 
Fed by tropic sun and shower, 
Grows a strangely fashioned flower ; 
Its corolla, cup-like, white, 
Drinks the long day's torrid light, 
Till it stands divinely fair 
On its stalk, uplifted there. 

Nestled in its deepest heart, 
Is the strangest, loveliest part ; 
There the inner petals fold 
O'er the anthers' dusty gold. 
And, as if to hint God's love. 
Make a perfect snow-white dove ; 
So the Sj)aniards reverently 
Christened it the Fhur cV Esprit. 

Oh, my heart ! though storms assail. 
Till the fibres cringe and quail ; 



THE FLOWER OF THE HOLY SPLRIT. 



177 



Though the fierce fires of despair 

Wrap thee in tlieir angry ghire. 

From their discipline at length 

Til on shalt gather bloom and strengtli. 

And a fitting temple be 

For the heavenly FJeiir d'Esprit. 




©nice ¥to Uoti. 



Swp:et to die and escape all pain. 
Ceasing to toil for impossible gain, 
Ceasing from rivalry, failure and tears. 
Ignoble struggles and unworthy fears ; 
Sweet to lie down to an untroubled rest, 
With Nature's green coverlet over the breast. 

Never a call in the morning to wake, 

With a burdened heart sinking and ready to break 

Never a call to labor unpaid, 

Never again to have trust betrayed. 

Never to i)r()ve affection a lie, — 

't would be sweet to lie down and die. 

No more to work with head, heart and hands. 
But to have thwarted our dearest plans ; 
No more to wrestle with grief or sin. 
The wrongs without and the evils within, — 
for that peaceful and dreamless sleep 



DULCE PRO MORI. 179 

Where hearts never ache and eyes never weep ! 

But sweeter to live and bravely endure. 

To our own best instincts proving truer, 

Resting in God witli a holier faitli 

Than weakly to pray for the rest of death, — 

Sweeter to live for humanity's sake, 

Striving to cheer other hearts that ache. 

Sweeter to live and our griefs ignore, 
Ministering to others, sin-sick and sore. 
Striving their woes to lighten or share. 
Giving God's poor our best thought and care ; 
Thus our own troubles, before we tliink. 
Will into insignificance sink. 

Sweeter to live — but not for self. 
Not for ambition, nor lore, nor pelf, 
A'or aught that this world can offer man, 
Hollow and false since the world began. 
Yes I sweeter to live, and to do God's will 
Till His Hand shall all our pulses still. 




S gicik f\ool^ I<e^^or|. 



Her features, pinched and drawn witli pain. 
Deep sunken eyes, and whitened liair — 

A form, attenuate and thin ; 
You recognize disease is there. 

Disease, in gastly, sickening pliase. 
Yet something more I recognize, — 

Something in that poor, wasted face, 
And something in the hoUow eyes, 

That, like a steady, vestal flame, 

On consecrated shrine or pyre. 
Quenchless and bright, nor dimmed by pain, 

Illumes her face with iioly fire. 

And thus it is no place of gloom ; 

You could not think it sad, or drear. 
This small, old-fashioned, homely room ; 

For there 's an angel brooding here ; 



A SICK BOOM LESSOK IRl 

And Resignation is her name. 

She lights tlie fire in those old eyes ; 
And by some heavenly grace she turns . 

'L\j [)rai8e lier [)ain-extorted cries. 

I '11 take the goodly lesson iiome. 

To sanctify both heart and mind. 
Come health or sickness, joy or gloom, 

'i'o Jesus' will I '11 be resigned. 



a> 



o/i\o 



S Ti^ibute of I^ove 



To the Memory of the late Hattie L. Flower 
a Former Contributor of Zion's Herald. 



I SEE lier in the olden place, 

And can not think lier dead ; 
The silvery cnrls about her face, 

And round her snowy head 
Bleached white with pain, and not with time, 
Wreathe aureoles of a frosty rime. 

Because I always found her there, 

I can not make it seem. 
That vacant room and empty chair. 

Aught but a troubled dream — 
A grim and haunting midnight spell. 
That morning sunshine will dispel. 

Yes, still I see the hazel eyes 

Her countenance illume ; 
And think I iind in mortal guise 

An angel in the room. 



THE LATE IIATTIE L. FLOWER. 18;^ 

So heavenly vsweef are her replies. 
Her hope so sure beyond the skies. 

I sit. and on her converse feed, 

And quite forget to go ; 
For lofty sentiments indeed 

Forth from her bosom flow, 
While I but dimly understand 
Such Christian heights, sublimely grand. 

The limits of one narrow room 

Enclosed her world for years : 
Yet never word of doubt or gloom 

Fell upon watchful ears ; 
Xor loving eyes e'er knew her shed 
Kepining tears of shrinking dread. 

Prone with disease and racking pain — 

The furnace fires for her — 
Yet to the Ohrist-like spirit's gain 

All did but minister : 
And He who made the Fourth of old. 
Hath brought her through, rc^fined as gold. 

Her life seems one long sacrifice — 

'Gainst suifering no defense ; 
Yet hers a nature that would rise 

And ti'iumph over sense. 



184 THE LATE II ATT IE L. FLOWER. 

Strong and sustained l)v God alone. 
Abiding ever near His tlirone. 

The discipline was sharj) and long, 

Vet purer is the gem, 
And sweeter is the sera})h song — 

Brighter her diadem ; 
For grace divine perfected thus 
The rare sweet spirit gone from us. 

As perfume on a summer wind 

Betrayetli blossoms near. 
So fragrant memories left behind 

Cling round her name so dear ; 
And in our hearts, enshrined deep. 
'J'he treasure of that name we keep. 

And still I can not, will not, think 

Of her as dead. Ah. no I 
From that sad, mournful word I shrink. 

It means so much of woe. 
I think of her as glorified ; 
I think of her as Heaven's bride. 




¥^ictute^. 



A WINDOW, hung with costly lace, 
xViid through the draperies, I cau see 

A youthful mother's tender face, 
Her hahy on her knee. 

And l)oth are clad witli richest care ; 

The room is large and warm and bright. 
All luxuries of wealth ;ire there, 

And 't is a pleasant sight. 

A pleasant picture — yet I know 

That mother, fair and sweet and young. 

Has her own secret, cankering woe, 
And oft her heart is wrung. 

Nor babe, so bright and })r()mising. 
Nor all that plenteous gold can buy. 

Can from her heart abstract the sting. 
The sadness from her eve. 



1<SH PICTURES. 

This is her grief, — and this her sliame,- 
That she is a neglected wife ; 

Mer Inisband's a dishonored name. 
And liers a blighted life. 

Another j)icture I can see, 

A needle-woman, thin and wan, 

Dwelling alone in penury. 
And youth and beauty gone. 

The room is cold and bare and dim ; 

Her slender lingers sadly worn. 
Weaving her broideries out and in — 

Her life of hoi)e is shorn. 

A memory stirs her feeble heart : 
It sets her being all aglow ; 

It makes the long pent tear-drops start,- 
That dream of long ago. 

A dream of love and hope and youth. 
Evokes she from the buried past, — 

A fair, false dream of Manhood's truth, 
Too beautiful to last. 

And wand'ring down a street o1)SCure 
Into a school-room, I can look 



PICTURES. 187 

Wliere children sit. with g-aze tlemiire. 
Intent on slate or book. 

Tlie teacher's form I can descry, 

Witli something still of girlish grace, 

A proud, pale brow, a thoughtful eye, 
An intellectual face. 

A noble mission hers ; and yet 

It tills not all that woman's iieart — 

Her sun of love hath darkly set — 
So soon life's dreams depart. 

And then I ask, Is friendshij) vain 

And hollow mockery indeed ? 
What mean these lives of ceaseless pain. 

These hearts that always bleed ? 

Then from some higher, nobler sphere, 

An answer unto me was given, 
And this is what I seemed to hear : 

There 's nothing true but Heaven. 



"fie thliX Conifoi^tetli You;' 



"I, even I, am He ihat comforteth you." 



Ax I) shiill not tluit suffice for all the crosses 

We l;)e!U', while jounieyino- throu.o'h this "vale 
of tears ? " 

Shall not this com})ensite for all Earth's losses. 
Hush our complainina's. aud dispel our fears ? 

When all the world has seemed a vain deceiving. 

And those we trusted most have [)r.)ved untrue, 
0, let this silence all our selfish grieving : 

"I. even I. am Fie that comforts you."" 

" I, even I."' what heavenly condescension 
The Lord of all the universe bestows I 
Though I were crushed with grief. I "d dare to 
mention 
Never again my petty, childish woes. 

I do remember One — a nnm of sorrows. 
With every phase of human grief acquaint. 



•HE THAT COMFORTETH TOUr 189 

And when 1 think of Him my sore lieart borrows 
A lioly comfort, and I do not faint. 

Trustful and cheerful then, I bear my burdens — 
My Father knoweth best my spirit's need. 

He hath assured me of celestial guerdons, 
He will my wandering feet in safety lead. 

Afflictions, that had seemed too great and bitter, 
I know He sends, ray weak heart to refine ; 

That for Heaven's purity I may he fitter. 

As grapes are bruised and crushed to yield us 
wine. 

No longer will I mourn that He ordaineth 
This love and that be stricken from my life. 

For God, I know, in tender mercy reigneth. 
And He will guard me from all needless strife. 

Tender and true — but not like mortal lover. 
This is a pledge divine — tender and true — 

I claim it always mine, till life be over, 
■■' 1, even I, am He that comforts you." 



J^a^tei^. 



With precious ointment, and spice and myrrh. 
Three sorrowing women, at break of day. 

Meet at the month of the Sepulchre — 
And lo I tlie stone liath been rolled away I 

Stooping they look in the rock-hewn grave, 
And two bright figures, in angel guise. 

Instead of their Lord in tliat burial cave. 
Meet tlieir astonished and friglitened eyes. 

Wliy seek ye the living among the dead ? 

Your Lord is risen — He is not here ; " 
Thus unto Mary the Angel said, 

Jn sweetest accent of heavenly cheer. 

Your Lord is risen ! *' Slie turned and there 
Stood Jesus, — the Master — the Crucified. 
Mary !" and calm grew her troubled air ; — 
' ' Rabboni I "' the woman, responsive, cried ; 



EASTER. \\)\ 

' Eabboni I "" And fell at her Master's feet. 
Wondering, loving, believing then : 
Her grief all tnrned to a joy complete. 
The joy of the ransomed Magdalene. 

" The Lord is risen I" 0, soul of mine. 
Mount skyward then as on angel wings ! 
This message sing in your flight divine. 
Till the whole wide universe with it rings : 

■' The Lord is risen/' this Easter day ! 
Cease forever my tears to flow I 
I '11 chant his mercy and love alway 
Till home to mv risen Lord I go ! 




¥lie Cty of tlie ©e^olate. 



Lamb of God I Thou luist known all. 
All suffering and all frailties that we know, 

All grievous trials which our souls befall, 
Life's every phase of weakness and of woe. 

( ) Lamb of God I I cry to thee ; 

Crushed to the earth beneath each heavy cross. 
In the worn spirit's dire extremity. 

Oidy the Heart divine can know my loss. 

O Lamb of God I The broken reed 
I dared to lean upon, and trusted so 

Proved but a bitter mockery indeed ; 

Trembling and faint and weak, I let it go. 

Lamb of God I I found it clay, 

The idol in my deepest heart enshrined ; 

Now fallen into ruins and decay 

I cast the unworthy object from my mind. 



THE CRY OF THE DESOLATE. 198 

Lamb of G(»d I All eartli-])oni hopes, 
That were to me like flowers of Paradise, 

Proved only perishable Passion flowers, 

And now have fallen to dust before my eyes. 

Lamb of ftod I Tiiere is life, 

A higher life, to wliich my soul aspires ; 

Bereft of earthly ho})es, weary of strife, 
I would renounce all worldly, weak desires. 

Dear Lamb of God I teach me resignation. 
Give me a firmer faith of hope and peace ; 

So shall I learn to shun each sore temptation. 
And calm and patient wait the soul's release. 



13 




'' We Sll do F^cule a^ tl^e I^eaf." 



How fade the leaves ? The frost and sun, 

CJhemists of earth and skies. 
Press out the summer's tender green, 

Press in all royal dyes ; 

Till all tlie forest llames and glows, 

And every shrub is seen 
Wearing her fiery coronal, 

Like some barbaric ([ueeu. 

Richer than Summer's gayest flowers. 

Or webs from Eastern looms. 
Or Indian fabrics strangely bright, 

Or gorgeous Tropic blooms. 

These wonderons leaves, so richly|\stained, 

As if with blood or wine, 
Call ye this fading ? then I pray 

Such fading mav be mine. 



" WE ALL BO FADE." 195 

When life shall ebl), and earth recede. 

0, I would fade like tliis, 
Perfecting, ripening for the land 

Of everlasting bliss. 

Nor grieve that tiiis poor tenement 

Of perishable olay 
Must, like all mottled, glowing leaves. 

So shortlv know deeav. 




My Kew Wktelv 



Tick, tick, little Watch, what are you trying to 
say ? 

Time is flitting and flying; flying and flitting 
away ; 

I strike ofl' the winged minutes witli ni}' little, re- 
lentless hand. 

And then you 've so many minutes less to live in 
this mortal land. 

Tick, tick, little Watch, and what will you have 

me do ? 
O, well if you heed tlie lesson I 'm trying to teach 

to you I 
For every ill spent monu^nt, though it be ever so 

brief. 
In the Judgment day your tears shall fall, in vain 

and bitter grief. 

Tick, tick, little Watch. cliange your dreary tune I 
Ah, my little monotonous note will surely change 
full soon I 



MY NEW WATCH. 



U»7 



For time will soon be ended — Eternity will begin, 
What then, if these priceless moments have e'er 
been spent in sin. 



Tick, tick, little Watch, you prosy little thing I 

I did not ask a sermom, I M rather hear you sing I 

I only sing to the good and true, who use the 

moments well, 
Who 've not to blush for squandered time — Are 

yon one of those, pray tell ? 



Ir| Merqoi^Y of f)o^ ^igei^ 



WHO DIED AT HILL FARM, OCTOBER, 1873. 



Good-bye. old Tige. good-lne I 

It may be weakness — yet 
We grieve that he must die, 

Tlie dear old ehimsy pet, 
The tumbling, huge old hulk. 

The uoble Mastifl' friend. 
Deatli claims his mammoth 1)ulk, 

Old Tigv is near his end. 

Associations dear 

Cling round his savage name, 
Linked in witli year on year. 

Since first to us he came ; 
dravi'. reverend, dignified. 

His most becoming mood : 
Manners that ne'er belied 

His high, patrician blood. 



BOG TIGER. IS)\) 

Loving, intelligent, 

.\nd vigilant, and brave, 
Sagacious — yet content 

'Vo be your friend, or slave. 
I)iterpreting your look, 

If it Ije dark or Ijriglit ; 
A frown he can not brook. 

A smile his heart's delig-ht. 



That '• o})en countenance," 

That happy wag of thine. 
Old dog. what can enhance 

The gifts that in thee shine I 
Beneath his shaggy coat. 

Full many virtues hide 
We never thought to note 

(Like men) until he died. 



Hero of many a l)attle. 

Comrade in many a play, 
Guardian of herded cattle, 

Sentinel night and day, 
Defending home and treasure, 

With staunch fidelity, — 
In woodland romp and pleasure, 

Who half so gav as he ? 



200 nOQ TIQER. 

No more he '11 chase the chickens 

That scatter panic struck, 
Nor i)lay the very dickens 

With waddling goose or duck. 
No woodchuck, sleek and fat. 

In forest wide and dark, 
Nor squirrel, coon, or cat. 

Need fear liis valiant bark. 



No more we hear a whacking 

Of that expressive tail. 
No more the midnight barking 

That makes the robber quail. 
His awkward gambols cease ; 

The almost human eye 
Glazes with age, apace, — 

Good-bye, old dog, good-bye. 



I wonder if a lieaven 

Somewhere there may not ])e. 
Which, after death, is given 

To faithful brutes like thee, — 
Some wild and free domain. 

Some happy hunting ground. 
AVhere large and toothsome game 

And roast beef bones are found 



DOG TIGER 201 

Only a soulless brute. 

Only a dog, you say ! 
But now his bark is mute, 

And he a lump of clay. 
Blame not tlie saddened heart 

That prompts the cliastened tear. 
And feels a genuine smart 

O'er dear old Tiger's bier. 



The self-m:ide sexton Tim 

Will scoop his narrow bed, 
Wliistling a negro hymn 

O'er royal Tiger's head. 
The winds chant sweet and low. 

And childishly we cry, 
As slowly home wo go, 

Good-bye, old Tige, good-bye. 




8 ol) 



WRITTEN FOR A BOY. 



Poor little, winsome Bol) I 
And I almost heard a sob 

Tliat pretty Bobbie cat should have to die. 
And Teddie's nose is red, 
And he turns away his head 

To hide tiie mist that gatliers in his eye. 

Who killed cmr kitty cat ? 

Did he dine off too much rat 
And a tit of indigestion 2Ji"ove enough ? 

Or some bad wicked l)oy 

Teddic"s little puss destroy. 
By introducing him to pizen stuff ? 

(Jnce in a ^lan of milk 
Did he plunge with coat of silk. 
When Hei'ing from a dreadful terrier. 
And there he growled and si)it ; 



BOB. 



203 



Doggie never cared a bit. 
And condescended not to wink or stir. 

But Missis fished Bob out, 

As an angler would a trout, 
And dried him so he did 'nt take a cold. 

Milk baths, they say, are good 

For complexions and for food. 
But Bobbie his opinion never told. 

But Bob is heard no more 

Galloping across the floor, 
Chasing Teddie with a string or whip or spool. 

With yellow eyes so bright, 

And his furry feet so light, 
Tnrning somersets — the funny little fool I 

Papa the coffin gave. 

And lie dug a tiny grave. 
And Teddie, as chief mourner, marched ahead : 

I think o'er many a bier 

There is mourning less sincere 
Than for our little bob-tailed pussy, dead. 



( i. 



S ©i^ekni 



THAT \A^AS NOT ALL A DREAM. 



The Editor sat in his easy chair 

With spectacles on his nose. 
And his countenance lost its look of care. 
While dozing and nodding; around him tliere 

Twelve cycles of time uprose. 

Twelve years, that seemed forgotten and dead. 
Marched softly in at the door ; 

All lovingly gathered about his head. 

And tender and beautiful things they said. 
Pertaining to days of yore. 

He stirred uneasily once or twice, 

But the magical spell was deep, 

And they held him long in a friendly vise. 

Then disap])earing all in a trice, 

The Editor woke from slee]). 



A BREAM. 



205 



'GLAD' 



rO SEE YOU!" he roared aloud, 
A.nd proved with u grip of iron ; 



But whetlier to me or the vanishing crowd,^ 
As he stood on the threshold happy and proud, 
GuesS; oh ye brothers in Zion I 




>[ew ^ow^ Bkll. 



There was ti noble motto. 
Far in the days of old, 

Held by the ancient Latins, 
A people brave and bold ; 

And down upon the current 
Of centuries ago, 

Conies floating that old watcliword, 
" Pro bono publico ! " 

The nations of tlie Ctesars, 

With all their classic braves, 
Tlieir grand historic heroes, 

Sleej), in forgotten graves. 
But tliis has well survived them, 

This thought, so long ago 
Breathed by some fine old Roman, 
" Pro bono publico I'' 

And so shall stand this structure 
We dedicate to-night. 



NEW TOWN HALL. 207 

Wlion they whose hands ujircared it, 
Shall all have passed from sight : 

A monument enduring, 

Our Town Hall shall have stood, 

To philanthropic spirits 

Who loved the public good. 

Their names were never carven 

Upon Fame's dusty scroll. 
And soon may be forgotten. 

As generations roll. 
Yet these same names are fragrant 

To us who gather here. 
With kind associations. 

And memories fond and dear. 

For instance, who so quickly 

All turbulence will quell, 
External or internal. 

As our beloved Bell ? 
And in all public measures, 

We care not what betide, 
We "11 stem all opposition, 

If ( \V)rig]it is on our side I 

Then, well and widely valued. 

To solace lonely hours, 
We count among our treasures 



2(18 ^EW TOWN HALL. 

A multitude of Floivers. 
"Slow-blooming," says some eyuic, 
Wanting to criticise. 
Not knowing Autumn blossoms 
Have ever richest dyes. 

Choice things in little parcels, 

They sell at Freeland's store, 
And that must be tiie reason 

We like a little Moore. 
And then witli all tlie lalior, 

And toil in Life's rough ways. 
How sho^tld we ever prosper 

Without our Hallidays? 

Uur Millers and our Gaylords 

To foreign parts were sent, 
But luive we not among us 

Our own good Duke of Kent? 
And for housekeeper's uses. 

High on our list we put 
What none will undervalue. 

Our much esteemed Root. 

Of petrified old fogies, 

The town has had enough ! 

Of animated mummies, 

And other worthless stuff. 



NEW TOWN HALL. 209 

But when we need a servant 

Some public trust to fill. 
Devoted, staunch, and faithful, 

We '11 re-elect G It ur chill ! 



And now, the months reviewing, 

That, steadily on high 
Brick after brick has risen. 

Triumphant toward the sky, 
Till school, and hall, and turret, 

Shapely and fair we see, 
'T is fitting that we gather 

In festive jubilee. 

Perchance there are some grumblers 

Who " want it understood 
They voted strong agin it ; 

It won't do them no good ; " — 
The times demand such fossils 

Be laid upon the shelf ! 
Too late, this age, for living 

Exclusively for self. 

We need not fear to cherish 
Too much of patriot zeal ; 

Large-hearted and true manhood 
Will serve the public weal ; 
14 



210 NEW TOWN HALL. 

Will bind upon his frontlet 

Wherever he may go, 
That ancient Roman watchword, 
" Pro bono Publico ! " 




1874. 



'' ^Q Opeqeel >fot Si^ >loiitl\/' 



0, IF I could remember, 

Wincing 'neath some rnde'^thrust, 
That seems unduly cruel, 

Malignant and unjust — 
Some word that makes indignant 

The blood to finger-tips — 
0, if I could remember 

He opened not his lips. 

When some old ghost, well hidden 

And buried out of sight, 
I think past resurrection. 

Is sudden dragged to light 
By hands of Goth and Vandal, 

Unsparing, merciless, — 
0, if I could remember 

He deadliest foes could bless. 

When so-called friends ungently 
Touch some old cicatrice. 



212 "HE OPENED NOT HIS MOUTH" 

0, that exquisite anguish — 

Betrayal with a kiss ; 
That keenest edge of suffering 

I dimly apprehend, 
Yet ken not how the Master 

Addressed him still as "friend." 

0, if I could remember. 

When provocations come, 
Jesus, accused all falsely. 

E'en like a lamb was dumb, 
He answered not, and meekly 

Received the crown of thorn ; 
1 turn in hot resentment, 

And hurl back scorn for scorn. 

He, grieved, despised, insulted 

By fierce and angry men, 
Scourged, mocked with bitter railing. 

Reviled not back again ; 
I strive, alas ! all vainly, 

To teach th' unconquered will 
That meek and Christly lesson, 

To suffer and be still. 

O, if I could remember 

No venomed barb can fall, 
No polished shaft of malice, 



•'HE OPENED NOT HIS MOUTH" 



218 



But Jesus sees it all, 
And lovingly invites me 

Upon His heart to lay 
Each burden, great or trivial. 

Forever and alway. 




L(ettei' fi'on] ]VIkrtl\ci\^ Vir|eyki'd. 



Mahtha's Vineyakd, August, 1875. 

Yes. Mr. Editor, that quartette of teachers before 
alhuled to in your cohimns have shutHed off professional 
primness, laid aside the character of hard task-mistress 
over "dapper little lads and I'osy lassies." and have 
flown awaT to the sea on a regulai' teacher's spree. Sit- 
ting on deck, as we approach the Island, we discern a 
bold bluff whose base is kissed by the frolicking waves, 
and whose summit is crowded with countless cottages, 
dainty and fanciful enough in design for the houu's of 
woodland elves and fairies. Momently it rises clearer, 
outlining itself with minute distinctness against the 
sapphire background of sky. And now a strain of 
music, delicious band music, welcomes the steamer from 
the Sea View House. Pleasant recognition greets three 
of our number. Your correspondent looks into strange 
faces only, but by great grace and clemency the quar- 
tette remains unbroken, and we are all donnciled under 
one roof. Like Dickens" Ijittle -Joe, we feel to exclaim. 



FROM MARTHA'S VINEYARD. 215 

" I "in in luck, I uiii I " as we are escorted to the Looniis 
cottage on Ocean avenue by its genial and gentlemaidy 
pi'oprietor. 

And then from its upper balcony, we look out u})(>n 
that incomparable view of the ocean, and for a space are 
dunil) with admiration. Xot for long. We burst into 
rhapsodies. We exhaust our adjectives. We realize as 
never before that our command of language is too beg- 
garly for such a scene as this. If we only had acres of 
canvas, and could di]) our lirush in a rainbow, Mr. 
Editor, we 'd paint it for you : A magnificent stretch 
of sea, laughing and dimi)ling in the sunshine, flecked 
with from two to three hundred sails. Some in the 
foreground, standing out full-sized, majestic and beauti- 
ful, every detail of mast and ro])e and spar clear-cut as 
an exquisite pencilling, the brilliant high-lights and 
deej) Kend)randt shadows of the sails eclipsing eveiT 
rlief-d'a'uvvc of the "old masters'" as nature must 
always eclipse art, and some in dim perspective, far on 
the horizon line, like the phantom ship in C^oleridge's 
Ancient Mariner. An ever moving panorama I a vision 
that never cloys I — this heaving, surging, moaning sea, 
with her fi-eight of brigs and schooners floating on to 
parts unknown, with her low-browed, ugly, but practi- 
cal, steamers, and her pleasure barks with parti-colored 
2)ennons. lovely, if not as costly, as Cleopatra's l)ai"ge. 
p]ven a call to supper from oui- large-hearted hostess 
(for she chooses to make us *' company " to-day) does 



216 FROM MARTHA'S VINEYARD. 

not break the spell. That ocean view, like the Irish- 
man's rum, is "victuals, drink and lodging" to iis, till 
we are assured that the view is warranted to keep ; and 
then one demure little damsel confessed to a feeling of 
"wentness." (Do n't be scandalized, oh editor I Last 
term we felt quite in the "sere and yellow leaf;" but 
we 've lost a dozen years to-day, and are enthusiastic 
school girls again, brimming with gush — and slang) — 
so we went gladly. 

The days are full of delights. We realize the Italian 
dolce far niente, and become unconscionably lazy. We 
sail, fish, bathe, eat and drink, and are merry, and in the 
twilight sit and gloat over our sea view. There 's inspi- 
ration in every breeze, only we feel inspired to do noth- 
ing but dream. It is a land of enchantment, and its 
glamour is over us all. 

Tuesday morning there 's a challenge to action : 
"Come, girls, ho for Nantucket I" And after rehears- 
ing the well-worn Indian legend of how Nancy took it, 
to three young ladies in two rooms, sitting up on elbow 
in bed, and firing the imaginations of our hearers by re- 
lating all we know, and some things we do n't, about the 
place, dressing up the latter in our most attractive style, 
they are prevailed upon reluctantly to rise and equip 
themselves for the expedition ; — an act attended by some 
haps and mishaps, whereby hangs a tale, of which 
" coffee," lost to the world, is the key-note. Breathless, 
we reach the steamer "Island Home," and embark, with 



FROM MARTHA'S VINEYARD. 217 

one c'uif off and one cuff on. like "my son John." in 
our favorite autlior. Mother (loose. A leisurely two 
hours' sail takes us across the intervening twenty-eight 
miles. Once we are almost out of sight of land — only 
the dimmest blue line in the distance betokens terra 
firm a. 

As we near the quaint and picturesque old town, we 
crowd forward eagerly. It is all huddled together, with 
snug compactness, and the remainder of the island is a 
barren sandbank, rising abruptly out of the sea. Two 
of us mount chairs, and under pretense of scanning the 
landscape, skyscape and waterscape, peer furtively into 
the pilot-house, where are two of the ship's ofhcers and 
the man at the wheel. "Oh none of that, girls,'' says 
another, rebuking their traditional woman's curiosity ; 
"you need n't try to sugar them over I They won't look 
at you!" One of the oflicers smiles indulgently and 
Avhispers, "You can come in here when you come 
back." Now on the door of this apartment was writ- 
ten, in offensively large characters, "No admittance." 
Therefore, we set this down as another act of great 
grace and clemency, whereof we were the subjects. 

Hounding Sankaty light-house we are soon in port, 
and have chartered a crazy old carryall with a juvenile 
charioteer to show us about the town. Up hill and down 
we are driven; through shell-paved streets, so narrow, 
neighboi's in opposite windows can almost shake hands 
across. The houses, niostlv ancient, are shingled Jiot on 



lMS from MARTHA'S VINEYARD. 

the roof alone, but all over, and hearing some lingering 
vestiges of paint, generally red paint, as that withstands 
the action of the salt air best. We visited the oldest 
house, built in l(i8fi, where are shown mammoth sea tur- 
tles, etc. ; climbed the Old South Tower (and repented for 
a week after), where a watchman is stationed at night to 
give alarm in case of lire, and where the eye commands a 
view of the whole island ; saw the bell-nian going about 
the streets ringing out his announcement of lecture or 
concert in primeval style ; laughed at the awkward two- 
wheeled, one-horse carts with a step behind, in which 
the elite of the place take their airings ; dined at an old- 
fashioned country hotel, and gossiped with various [)eo- 
ple. '• The young folks all leave the place,"" said one gar- 
rulous old body: "nobody left but us old folks now; 
become extinct pretty soon.'" "Hut what do you live 
on, business seems so stagnant ?" " Live on each other, 
sorter, l^hen there "s a good many retired sea captains, 
too cautious to invest their money in anything new."" 
The wharves, all gone to decay, a mass of debris level 
with the water, tell how the place has fallen from its 
pristine glory. We looked on, not in speculative mood 
only, for it had a mournful sort of historic interest for 
us, since certain of our kin, a tall and handsome com- 
mander of a whaler, sailed always from this port, and 
won here his Quaker-born wife, the elegance and jjolish 
of whose manners and the richness of whose trousseau 
were admired beyond the limits of this ])i)or and lonely 



FROM MARTHA'S VINEYARD. iM 1» 

little island. Dead, now; — dead, too, and forever de- 
parted, the bnsiness life and activity that once pulsated 
through the streets of this venerable Quaker town. On 
board the steamer again, and dutifully scribbling a postal 
home, we are graciously informed that we may be ad- 
mitted into the coveted sanctum sanctorium — the pilot- 
house. The gallant captain and mate are most enter- 
taining. We feel a little shy of the former on account 
of his superior position and our ignorance, but he con- 
descendingly lays aside hi.s dignity, and binnacle, com- 
pass and s})y-glass are laid under contribution for our 
enlightenment. Sailors' yarns are reeled off to our vast 
delectation : and I suppose those two urbane gentlemen 
have n't refreshed themselves with the sight of four 
greater little fools this many a day than your quartette 
of teachers. We look in the bronzed faces of those two 
sons of Neptune with ill-disguised admiration while 
they answer our questions, wise and otherwise (mostly 
the latter, we suspect), in regai'd to navigation, bell- 
buoys, the telegraphic cable laid from the main land to 
the Vineyai'd, etc., ad infinitum, while an occasional 
jeu d'esprit. like a rocket, flashing out from the lips of 
Martha (not the legendary Martha of the Vineyard), the 
wit of the company, makes the little pilot-house ring 
with our merriment. Well, there 's an end to all sul)- 
luuary things, and so there is an end to our lessons in 
navigation from our patient and eminently able instruc- 
tors, Capt. Manter and Mate F'itzgerald of the steamer 



220 FROM MARTHA'S VINEYARD. 

Island Home. But we shall not soon forget the marked 
courtesy and kindness extended to us on board their 
boat. "Girls," said one, confidentially. "I think we 
can safely set that down as a compliment ; " and so it 
was received with a great deal of unexpressed exulta- 
tion. Such a lot of Westfieldians at the Vineyard, and 
all as '^' happy as a clam at high tide I" (If nautical 
quotations abound hereafter, please attribute it to — 
any thing you please). And scarcely a Springfield face. 
How it is that the people of Springfield so ignore this 
gem of sea-side resorts is a problem too deep for our 
solving. Its attractions can scarcely be paralleled, cer- 
tainly not surpassed. Katama and South Shore are in 
reserve for us, a future day ; likewise (lay Head, twenty- 
five miles distant, with its many-colored rocks of curious 
geological formation. A short cruise to Cape Poge is 
the programme for to-morrow. If we "fish for a whale 
and catch it," you shall be duly informed, though we 
shan't feel to grumble if we take a seventeen-pound blue 
fish, as did one of our neighbors recently. Time for- 
bids just now any reference to the camp-ground, and a 
thousand things that demand notice. We go now to 
feast our eyes again on the sublime spectacle of old 
ocean stretching for countless leagues away, and so, per- 
chance, more anon. 



^lever\tl:\ Si\i\iYei^0ki'Y 



As mothers love to celebrate 

Each natal day returning. 
Of all their darlings, small or great. 

With partial fondness yearning, 
So comes Dame Trinity to-day. 

Her outsi^read arms caressing 
The Mission Child that came last May, 

And gives the bairn her blessing. 

Like Samuel, child of many prayers, 

Had been the embryo Mission, 
Through years of waiting, toils and cares, - 

At last came glad fruition. 
At last the old North Main Street Class, 

Through struggles agonizing, 
The grand finale brought to pass, 

An infant church uprising. 

That good old Class of '64, 

What memories round it hover ! 



222 ELEVENTH ANNIVERSARY 

'T is well to glance its annals o'er. 
And live its triumphs over. 

There, spiritual pabulum 
Invariably sat good, 

(_)n saint and sinner, old and young. 
Administered by Atwood. 

And now. in 1875, 

We boast what can 't be beaten. 
A Sunday School that 's all alive. 

Because — it 's "run" by Eaton, 
A Bible Class enthused with brain. 

Whose virtues next would I sing, 
(Our loss is our pet Mission's gain). 

Conducted by 07ie Rising ! 

These are but lesser lights, we know. 

Round their grand center paling ; 
The master mind to whom we owe 

Allegiance unfailing. 
Our Pastor ! few the flocks indeed 

That such a prize inherit ; 
The Church's pride, the Mission's need ! 

Hulburd ! well christened Merritt ! 

One year ago a goodly throng 
Within these walls assembled, 



ELEVENTH ANNIVERSARY. 228 

Then first they echoed to a song, 

And 'neath a sermon trembled. 
Brown were the rafters — cobwebbed o'er — 

Rude and unsightly may be, 
(Rude as the manger that of yore 

Enshrined a heavenly Baby I) 

But willing hands had polished well 

Rough floor, and beam, and rafter, — 
And still the brethren love to tell 

Of one, mid smothered laughter. 
Prefiguring them that walk in white, 

Yet armed with nail and mallet, 
Who like a Trojan wrought that night. 

Our chronic Joker — Hallet I 

That snowy drapery fluttering free 1 

Some, still, perchance may doubt it ! 
But "thereby hangs a tale," you see — 

Ask Atwood all about it ! 
Tired hands, but happy hearts next morn. 

Spirits that wearied never. 
Beheld the Christian project born 

Of patient, long endeavor ! 

And God's sweet sunshine fell as bright 
As if through stained glass sifted. 



224 ELEVENTH ANNIVERSARY. 

And angels leaned to view the sight 

Of souls to Christ uj)lifted ; 
Here, in this strange, unwonted place 

So humble, and so lowly. 
Here shone the mystery of God's grace 

On that May Sabljath holy. 

The oriole in the apple tree 

Hushed his roulade and listened, 
Aiul turned his pretty head to see 

The Ringgold Mission christened. 
The bees hummed sleepily and low 

Outside the rustic casement. 
And robin with his Ijreast aglow 

Looked on in mute amazement. 

While hymn and skyward mounting prayer 

In solemn dedication, 
Floated like incense on the air 

From priest and congregation. 
And worldly hearts unused to pray. 

And wandering far from Heaven, 
Were somehow strangely touched that day, 

And won to God that even. 

So all the records of the year 
Repeat the blessed story ; 



ELEVENTH ANMVEftSART. 225 

You "ve marked tlie penitential tear. 

And heard the shout of glory. 
And this to some is holy ground — 

Tread reverently, brothei'. 
So dear a spot the wide earth round 

Holds not for them another. 

Then go thee forth our tirst-boi'n one, 

Our dearly cherished Mission. 
We "11 bear thee u\) to Heaven's throne. 

On many a fond petition. 
Thy flock an undivided whole I 

No heresy or schism 
Divide thee, as the years shall roll 

Far from the ^fay-ilay chrism. 

But peace, and harmony, and love. 

And holy Christian union. 
And gracious influence from above. 

Cement thy saints' communion ; 
Till meet our noble Mission bands 

In fields forever vernal — 
In temples Inulded not with hands. 

High in the heavens eternal. 
15 



f|> 



Wlit6l} Xiglit. 



The last hour of the gray old year I 
In silent prayer, on bended knee 

O'er follies past we drop a tear. 
And wait, Lord, on Thee. 

From many a pit-fall, many a snare, 
Tiiy love alone hath kept our feet ; 

Our hearts are touched l)y Thy kind care, 
80 infinitely sweet. 

How near to awful moral wreck, 
Or dangers })hysical we "ve been. 

We know not : but some timely eheck 
Of Thine hath saved from sin. 

For mercies rich and numberless, 

That all the chaiigeful year have crowned. 
Our Father's glorious name we bless, 

And loud His praises sound. 



WATCH NIGHT. 227 

Some broken idol we bemoan ; 

Some hopes lie buried 'neath the sod ; 
And here Thy chastening hand we own, 

And bend us to Thy rod. 

Millions and millions sleep to-day, 

Who, but one year ago to-night. 
With health and happiness were gay. 

And looked toward futures bright. 

Still our probation lingers yet I 

But when some year is growing old. 

The sun upon our graves will set ; 
Our story will be told : 

We shall have crossed life's troubled sea. 
And anchored on an unknown shore. 

O, take us then to dwell with Thee, 
Dear Lord, for evermore. 



© 



Pi'ci^^ei' iot tl^e Poof. 



Angels, pity all the pooi- 1 
Those wlio beg from door to door ; 
Those who tread with weary feet 
Country lane, and city street ; 
Those whose faces pinched and pale. 
Tell of want a woeful tale — 
Tell of wretchedness and woe, 
Such as but the poor can know. 
Children shivering in the cold. 
Faces prematurely old, 
Little limbs so poorly clad ; 
Mothers ! you would think it sad 
Looked your petted darlings thus. 
Pitiful appear to us 
Tattered rags and hungry eyes, 
Pleading lips and shuddering sighs. 
Of the homeless squtilid poor. 
Begging thus from door to door. 
Other worn and weary feet 



A PRAYER FOR THE POOR. '2'2\) 

Tread the cold, unfriendly street : 
Men and women, grim and gaunt. 
Victims of tlie demon Want — 
0, wliat dire temptations lure, 
Thinking of what they endure, 
Thinking, ^adly. as they must, 
' Is the God above them just ?" 
Thinking madly, He, indeed, 
Cares not for tlieir bitter need, 
Tempted thus, and tried so sorely, 
Driven to despairing hourly ; 
0, what wonder if they faint. 
And, ignoring all restraint, 
Hopeless of a better time. 
Reckless plunge them into crime. 
Filching, then, from door to door I 
Angels, pity all the poor I 
Others tread the city street, 
Amply sliod their dainty feet ; 
•Costly raiment wraps them round. 
Blessings rare their lives have crowned ; 
They are sumptuously fed. 
While a brother starves for bread. 
Purse-proud, stiif -necked, unrefined. 
■C'Oarse and groveling heart and mind. 
Yielding no allegiance to 
Tiiat good God who blessed tliem so ; 
Never beu' thev at vour door. 



•_>;]() A PRATER FOR THE POOR. 

Yet they 're pitiably poor — 
Poorer far than any otlier. 
E'en the starved and ragged brotlier. 
Men with natures warped and mean. 
Men whose lives with vices teem, 
Narrow-souled and sordid men. 
0., good angels I pity them I 
Women, bound by golden fetters, 
Who in ignorance snub their betters ; 
Flaunt abroad tlieir shoddy dresses, 
And their bought-and-paid-for tresses L 
Slaves to one o'er-mastering passion, 
Bow they at the shrine of fashion ; 
In the vortex, sinking lower. 
Angels I pity all the poor. 




S Chufcil^ jVIenibei'. 



She sank on the pew's soft cushions, 

And drew off a dainty kid, 
That the gems ujion her fingers 

Perhaps might not be hid I 
She shook out a cobweb kerchief. 

Witli its cloud of perfume sweet. 
And was ready now in the temple 

Her Master and Lord to meet I 

Her hands were ablaze with jewels, 

Aiul round her neck they shone. 
And each fair wrist was circled 

With a glittering golden zone. 
A luminous diamond dew-drop, 

Pendant from either ear. 
Glowed like a dancing sunbeam 

Frozen into a tear. 

One precious, beautiful emblem 
Upon her breast she wore — 



232 A CHURCH MEMBER. 

A cross — iui elegant trinket, 
The ]i( aviest cross she bore I 

Up rose tlie pale young preacher. 
And "let us pray," he said ; 

My lady bowed devoutly. 

With ai]' and mien well-bred. 

A missionary sermon 

Announced the preacher then. 
Nor suffered chronic slumberers 

To doze or nod again. 
A dash of indignation 

Mixed with his words of zeal. 
His eloquence compelling 

Their stubborn hearts to feel. 

'' Four hundred millions of heathen 

Keach out their eager hands 
For the bread of life, tlie gospel. 

In their benighted lands. 
Thousands of Bible-readers 

To India might be sent, 
If tliis. my sisters, onJji 

Your jewelry were spent. 

''Immortal souls ai-e starving; 
And do vou even heed 



A CHURCH MEMBER. 2;i.H 

The piteous plaint ascending, 

In your insatiate greed ? 
Wrapt in your seltish garments. 

A Pharisaic robe. 
Have ye done auglit to lessen 

Tlie sins that belt the globe ? 

"For 0, your tastes are morl)id. 

And false and vain your pride ; 
Luxurious ease entli rails you, 

Unhallowed wants, beside; 
Unworthy aims are cheating 

The Master of His due ; 
Women of Methodism, 

bad is the cliai'ge. Imt true I 

•'O. would our Christian women 

With but devotion meet. 
Strip off their senseless baubles. 

And cast them at His feet. 
To whom belongs the treasure 

Of earth and mine and sea, 
How long before the nations 

To Him would subject be ? 

"The gold that now bedizens 
Dear woman's lovelv form. 



284 A CIIURCII MEMBER. 

Would send the truth to millions — 
Would feed, and clothe, and warm, 

Would civilize, enlighten. 

And leaven soon the whole — 

Would give the world salvation, 
P'roni tropic to tiie })ole. "' 

My lady sat and pondered ; 

Herself, for once, forgot ; 
Til rough all that peacock splendor 

The random arrow shot, 
Nor dreamed the modest marksman 

Where struck the winged dart — 
How torpid was the conscience — 

How cold the wordling's heart. 

< "omplacent airs all vanished ; 

A blusii of tardy shame 
Cre))t up her haughty features. 

And dyed her cheeks like flame. 
With soul so sadly humbled, 

8he dared not even pray. 
One devotee of fashion. 

At least, went home that day. 

For, though her only idol 

Was stvle and Q^orffeous dress. 



A CHURCH MEMBER. 285 

Her all-enibraciiig error. 

Consummate selfishness. 
Her name was on the churcli-books — 

Of Methodism, too I 
And " over true'' the picture. 

Dear sister, was it vou ? 




C!ei\ter(iiik1 Jottii)^^, lg^6. 



"TnKK won't ever be sorry thee came?" and gentle 
Friend Rebecca looked tranquilly on us, out of eyes un- 
dimnied by seventy-eight years of sight-seeing in this 
world of wonders. " Why, it 's a whole liberal educa- 
tion I — I would n't miss it for a small fortune," we 
Ijurst out, something like a beer-bottle that must effer- 
vesce a little to save an explosion, for we are full to the 
brim of the marvels and glories of the Exposition. The 
treasures of the world — the world of nature and art — 
are here in such richness and lavishness that any ex- 
ti'avagance of speech seems impossible. If one (;ould 
take it all in, and retain, and assimilate, what a walking- 
encyclopedia one might become I 

Here one gets more vivid impressions of national char- 
acter in a moment than could be obtained in we<^ks of 
reading. Witness the grotesque and fantastic, if not 
lioi'ril)le, carvings of serpents and dragons and feasts, 
jjossible and impossible, on various contributions by pagan 
countries, and contrast with them the geometricsil de- 



CENTENNIAL JOTTINOS. 2-") 7 

signs, und the carvings of Hower and fern and fruit cm- 
ployed in the architecture and ornamentation of civilized 
naiions. 

Here, too, one may delight his eyes on a thousand 
things that even extended travel would not afford : as. 
for instance, the crown jewels of Austria would hardly 
he exposed to tlie common herd, who may here behold 
their fac-simile, in size and color and variety, if not in 
brilliance and value ; a very iiandsome display it is, too. 
We pay one minute's tribute to this sign of royalty, and 
pass on to see the largest opal in the world. Unset, and 
but ])artly cut, as large as a lady's palm, it lies with its 
glowing heart of fire dimly traceable beneath the surface. 
Briefly we linger before the gems of the great diamond 
merchants, Tiffany, Starr and ^larcus, and Caldwell. 
Oh I those precious stones I Strange thoughts, that 
nothing else in the great exhibition has wakened, float 
through the brain as we gaze; thoughts of a city that 
seems like a dream — a walled city, with gates. Beauty 
and splendor unconceived are there. Amethyst and 
emerald, jacinth and sapphire, sardonyx and beryl, gar- 
nish the foundation of the wall — a jasper wall — and 
every gate a single pearl. •• And there shall in no wise 
enter into it any thing that defileth, or worketh abomi- 
nation, or maketli a lie." But our day-dreams are frag- 
mentary and changing as tlie views in a kaleidoscope. 

Here is the Russian cloth of gold. Fancy the nobles 
and princes of a monarchy in such vesture, on occasion 



288 CENTENNIAL JOTTINGS. 

— ;i litei'iil golden armor I Hut wliile we pause, a mem- 
ory, long buried under the deposit of years, conies to tlie 
surface. A bevy of school girls in the history class, and 
their beloved Miss Bliss enriching the prosy recitation 
with the story of Philip Second of Burgundy, dressed in 
cloth of gold, dying on a field of battle, which ever after 
was called, "the Field of the Cloth of (Told." Now. 
how plaguesome it is that no more returns I Was it in 
the days of the Plantagenets, when England made such 
a fuss over some little French provinces? And did 
Philip's vanity so blind him tliat he forgot that such 
garmenture would make him a " bright and shining 
mark "for the enemy? No use I Memory sullenly re- 
fuses to aid : we '11 appeal to the books, or better, to Miss 
Bliss, that feminine epitome of iiistory. ancient and 
modern, who, to this day, is the center of revolving 
satellites in the class-room. 

The gold 2)late next attracts the eye. Nothing richei' 
than solid silver for table furniture, has heretofore fallen 
under our unsophisticated notice, juid we confess to being 
the least bit subdued, not to say stunned, by the massive 
magnificence of this gold plate, engraved with tiie most 
exquisite artist fancies. We are told that the precious 
metal is plated on bronze, antl we heave a sigh of relief, 
for the sense of so mncb grandeur was decidedly oppres- 
sive. Another memory is waked u}) in a long unvisited 
corner of the brain — how, rambling once among the 
falling chestnuts, a gentleman related that when he was 



CENTENNIAL JOTTINGS. 2.')9 

reeoived at the Russian court, the banquet tables were 
spread with gold plate. It seemed like a fairv tale then, 
and we fancied he colored the narrative a bit to astonish 
the country hill-side frolickers, that autumn day; but 
lo ! here it is a verity, and we make our quondam friend 
this tardy amends. 

J\v and by, the educational department of Boston, 
Cincinnati and Indianapolis tlirows us into transports of 
delight. Such drawings and penmanship I tSuch neat- 
ness and method, such pretty fancies, in original designs, 
by little lads and lassies I Such examination })apers I 
''Oh," but you say, "tiiere are errors there.'' Oh, 
what is that to one who is accustomed to hearing, "A 
valley is an elongated depression," rendered "long- 
gaited des2)eration : " and to such statements as that 
"Brazilian forests are filled with all kinds of monkeys, 
and o/'/ser beautiful birds;"' and that the "Southern 
States yield cotton, tobacco, and otJwr delicious fruits I " 
But for mechanical execution, and for the development 
of taste and skill, these volumes of common school work 
seem marvels of excellence, till a clergyman's wife from 
Ohio informs us that "there is no reason why they should 
n't, etc. Scholars and teachers Just 'crammed ' for Cen- 
tennial, devoting many months almost exclusively to draw- 
ing and writing I " Notwithstanding our vehement ad- 
vocacy of drawing, our enthusiasm droi)s to zero. 

Here and there we pause a minute before the peas- 
ant groups, in national costiime, that trans[)oi't us across 



240 CENTENNIAL JOTTINGS. 

seas to Sweden, or Lapland, or some other "'furrin 
part," not likely to be visited by us in any other man- 
ner. A party of ladies and gentlemen are also loitering 
by, having just passed the Swiss clock-mender. 'L'hey 
approach an officer. He is tall, statuesque, motionless, 
after the fashion of his kind when in rei)ose. Evidently 
in abstracted mood, he does not perceive that he is the 
subject of admiring remark. " Why, it 's a policeman, 
is ir't it ? How perfect I" Unlike many of the trea- 
sures here, he is unticketed, '• Do not handle; "' and one 
lady, with a view to turning him round for better in- 
spection, steps airily forward, and takes hold of him. 
He leaps iiito the air ; she recoils with a terrified scream ; 
and the rest are convulsed with laughter, the policeman 
presently enjoying the situation most of all. Neither 
was it a nice piece of acting on his part, his duties being 
so mechanical that he may often lose himself in reverie 
amid the throng. Such scenes are said to have been re- 
peated to the vast amusement of one party, and the cor- 
responding chagrin of the other. 

How shall we dare to sjjcak of the treasures of Me- 
morial Hall ? Yet it would seem that the veriest tyro 
might soon learn to discriminate with some justice, 
since there are such marked specimens of merit and of 
demerit. True, one wonders how some of the pictures, 
wliere the most common rules of perspective are violated, 
ever ran the gauntlet of criticism to get in here. Here 
is one with the shadows falling in two opposite direc- 



CENTENNIAL JOTTINGS. 241 

tioiis, iiiclicatino- that the artist (?) conceived of two 
suns in the heavens. But there 's plenty to feed the 
{esthetic nature, witliout liarrowing up the soul with the 
works of sucli an erratic genius. Here is one, where the 
dew lies on tlie grass so fresh, so natural, that you, on 
your tired })edestals, almost envy the barefoot cow-boy 
luxuriating in it. Another, where such life is given to 
flesh tints, such rotundity to limbs, that it seems as if 
the figures might almost step from their frames. Here 
is one — the Iron-worker. 

The scene is the throne-room of a palace. The king, 
in crown and regal robes, stands on the platform, with 
commanding mien, confronting an angry and excited 
crowd. One arm is outstretched toward the occupant of 
the throne, a bronzed and stalwart Vulcan of a fellow, a 
toiler in some lowly sphere, his shirt-sleeves shoved 
above the elbow. He sits with folded arms, dignified, 
calm, the only one unmoved. The others, by everv 
fierce and frantic gesticulation and exjaression, manifest 
their scorn, malice, contempt, ridicule, disappointment 
and impotent rage at the situation. We grope a little, 
and then a fragment of a story from the Talmud dawns 
on us. with half uncertain ray — how king Solomon once 
pledged his throne to the most useful worker in metals : 
and they came, the silversmith and the goldsmith and 
the worker in precious gems, and all the hungry horde 
of self-seekers ; but the wise man's decision fell on the 
brawny blacksmith — the iron-worker. 
IG 



242 CENTENNIAL JOTTINGS. 

A tiny bit of canvas near by is called, -'Tlie old clock 
on the stairs,"* and it seemed as if the pensive, silver- 
liaired old lady in the pictnre was keeping time with the 
click of her knitting needles to the solemn, monotonous 

"Forever — uever 1 
Never — forever ! " 

of the tall, quaint clock on tlie stair-landing of this 

" Old-fashioned country-seat 
Somewhat back from the village street." 

It was easy to live over with her the scenes of the poem. 
There were the stairs down which the bride tripped 

■' On her wedding night ; " 
and in that 

■' Room below 
The dead lay in his sheet of snow." 

Dear old huly, sitting there alone, sweet, patient and 
saintly, one longed to l)reak in on the old clock's half 
sad, half glad refrain, with a l)urst of sympathetic 

"Eartli hatli no sorrow which Heaven can not heal." 

Strange what power in a few feet of canvas to move the 
soul I 

Often it was with an effort that visible emotion was 
restrained, for in this proper throng one would n't be 
guilty of "•gush," nor of making a ''scene." But when 
standing before Murillo's Christ it was necessary to sum- 
mon the stern sentinel Will, to keej) the gate of the tears 



CENTENNIAL JOTTINGS. 248 

fast shut, so vivid, so intense was the unutterable agony 
in tliat countenance so liuman, so divine. The tender- 
ness without weakness, the strength without luirshness — 
surely, surely the old Spanish painter must have known 
redeeming love, since nothing less could have lent him 
such inspiration for tliis work. Standing before it Ave 
are quite tolerant (for the moment) of the image and 
picture worship of the illiterate papist. 

Wandering amongst the English pictures, and uiudde 
to restrain some ejaculations of delight, we hear at our 
elbow : 

" Oh, these are notliing I You should come across the 
water to see what we can do. We do not send our best 
pictures to America I " Thus, pompous, self-com})lacent 
John Bull. What an amusing contrast to the modest 
Kussian who, when told, "'Your country has made a 
magnificent disi)lay,"' replied : •' No finer than the otiier 
nations, although we brought tlie best we had I '" 

Signor Oastellani's collection of majolicas, made by the 
Arabs in Sicily, from tlie year 1200 to lOOO, is a most 
unique and interesting subject of study. 

Also Raphael's ware, from the 15th to the end of the 
16th century : the signor's gems, and mirrors, and toilet 
articles, too, from Ninevah and Perse})olis, the corrosion 
and verdigris of ages testifying to their genuineness. 
Also the marble busts of many long-forgotten great ones 
of earth. It is probably gross ignorance, but we can 
not affect admiration for these broken-nosed worthies. 



244 CENTENNIAL JOTTINGS. 

A lively enriosit}' and mirtli are the only emotions they 
excite in our benighted minds. 

Here is the head, at least a large fraction of it, of 
Euripides, a tragic poet of Athens, born in Salamis 480 
B. C. And here one of Tiberius, third em})eror of Rome, 
born 42 B. C, died A. D. oT — found in Naples. Here, 
the Greek poetess Sappho, who lived more than half a 
thousand years before Christ, and there an Apollo, 
together witli various other gods and goddesses of ancient 
Grecian story. But now these marble men and women 
revenge themselves for our unseemly levity. Spite of 
knocked-off chins and broken lips they seem to thunder, 
'^You puny scions of a degenerate race, you should 
know all of history, and poetry, and mythology, since 
time began, before you prate of us!'' We rally from 
this withering rebuke, to perpetrate a weak joke about 
their bilious east of countenance, but are eclipsed by 
their nineteen centuries of stony calm, and, hiding our 
diminished heads, pass on. 



Jol:\i|'^ I<ettei'. 



Dear Mother, you will wonder what luck abroad I 

find ; 
My woi'k is quite congenial, and the boss is very 

kind. 
But I "ve been awful home-sick, I do n"t mind telling 

you. 
Especially at night-fall. I was desperately blue. 
I missed the pleasant home scenes where T was wont 

to be. 
Where I knew every body, and every one knew me; 
Where every living creature for my fortunes seemed 

to care, 
From the little yearling heifer to the stuuibling old 

gray mare. 

So T formed a reckless habit of wand 'ring through 

the streets. 
But a fellow is most lonesome in the l)iggest crowd 

he meets I 



24(i JOHN'S LETTER. 

Till' windows looked inviting, and tlirough tlieni I 

conld see 
Snch friendly gi'ou})s of people in social revelrv I 
Could hear the click of glasses, the joke and snatch 

of song. 
And I grew morose and l)itter. left outside every 

throng. 
One night, when strangely moody, and full of 

thoughts of gloom. 
My foot was on the threshold of Howai'd's hilliai'd 

I'oom. 

When suddenly I started : a stranger said to me. 
"Excuse me, friend, hut do you seek pleasant com- 
pany y 

We have an entertainment up at the Rooms to- 
night. 

If you "11 go with mt' thither. 1 shall he liappy (juiti'." 

Mother, a strain of music from over Heaven's wall. 

T think would not l)e sweetei'. than was that simple 
call : 

For you a woman, can not guess how we })ooi' hoys 
fare. 

Cast on a city's current, with not a si)ul to care. 

The heart-ache and the longing just for a friendly 

tone I 
(Perhaps it isn't manly such childishness to owu), 



JOILXS LETTER. 



24: 



I have i\'t luui'li exj)erieiice. and may be pretty 

gTeeii. 
Hut Ijeiiig (|uite olisei'vant. I know what some thing's 

mean. 
The snares we "ve vaguely dreamed of, are not a 

mytli. l)e sure : 
Saloons at every corner, and gandjling hells allure I 
(iay trappings- lend enticement to every vice aiul 

sin. 
And I "ve beheld that manv are thev who <i'o thei'ein. 



But 1 "m digressing sadly. .My new friend led the 

way 
Where hung illumiiuited, a sign "'y. M. C. A.!" 

That night was my salvation : for, mother, there and 

■ then 
Society was offered with healthy, high-toned men. 
Do n't think 1 "m gi-owing i)i'iggish : it is n't senti- 
ment. 
l^ut I believe an angel, that night, the stranger sent. 
And do n't forget, in ])]'aying each day while I am 

gone. 
To bless the Association, and V(nir devoted John. 



Cl]i4^^t Oiii^ Stti^actioiv 



Far on the plains of Texas, 

Tliere blooms a little flower, 
Which ever, through all changes 

Of sunshine, or of shower. 
Through calm, or stormy tem})est. 

Its leaves it putteth forth, 
Unmoved by wind or weather, 

Steadfastly toward the North. 

0, vacillating Christian, 

Torn by adversity, 
Percliance an admonition 

Is hidden here for thee. 
Learning from this mute teacher. 

The little Compass-floAver, 
Toward Christ, in joy or trial, 

Lean thou in every liour. 

A traveler, in straying 

For years the wild world o'er, 



CHRIST OUR ATTRACTION. 249 

A small, magnetic needle 

Safe in his bosom bore. 
Strange lands, and waste of waters 

His soul conld not dismay, 
For tlirongh all devious wanderings. 

His true steel points the way. 

So thou, doubting Christian, 

Tossed on life's angry sea, 
Sliall never lose thy bearings, 

If Christ thy magnet be. 
Grave dangers may encompass. 

Perils and grief o'erwhelni ; 
The harbor is assured thee. 

With Jesus at the helm. 

In his lone watch, a sailor 

Was never once misled 
I^y all the constellations 

That flamed above his head ; 
For, in the northern heavens 

One single light he knew, 
And steered by that fair beacon. 

Tiie pole-star, tried and true. 

0, weak, half-hearted Christian, 

Loving the world too well, 
Do myriad sweet allurements 



250 CHRIST OUR ATTRACTION. 

8eek in thv soul to dwell 't 
Fix thou thy roving- vision 

Where in the heavens afar. 
With never-fading glory. 

Shineth dear Bethlehem's star. 

A ship, on troubled waters 

Tossed like an infant's toy. 
Cared not for wrathful billow. 

In her coquettish joy. 
She only rocked more lightly 

^Vs storms \\'ent roaring past. 
For staunch, and strong, and faithful 

The anchor held her fast. 

And though thou seemest. Christian, 

The sport of time or chance. 
Their impotent endeavors 

Shall but thy joys enhance : 
Thou need'st not strive, nor wrestle. 

But laugh at every shock, 
So long as thou art anchored 

In Christ, tlie livinti" Rock. 



o-/i\o 



fl> 



GJ:iiii|elfatlief ^ fioii^e. 



Friday morning at school. Tramp, tramp, tramp 
came the young- feet l)\' hundreds up the stairs. A 
heterogeneous procession, of all classes and colors and 
conditions, past tiie task-mistress they file. Grim and 
still as a statue, save for the '"eyes all round her head." 
she notes eacli lass and laddie, nice and winning, or 
rougli and forl)idding, and sees in each as Angelo saw, 
in the uncouth block of marble, an angel (sometimes 
awfully fast-prisoned indeed.) that she is sent to liberate. 
One little man halts to smuggle into her hands a pear. 
And what a pear I It must l)e wax I No ; only the great 
artist could mold and color this, througli ins sul)tle 
chemists, sun and air and earth's juices. What a mam- 
moth it is, and wliat a Ijrilliant cheek it has I Hut how 
could the tooth of a child forbear to test this piece of 
perfection ? Who knows wluit struggle and wliat vic- 
tory trans})ired on the way to school, before this j)rince 
of pears could be laid on the teacher's shrine ? Or was 
it a free-will thank-offering, the reason of wliicii Johnnii^ 
knows, and she knows, and that is enough I Anv wav it 



252 GRAXD FATHER'S HOUSE. 

is mncli too lovely and luscious to be devoured by any com- 
monplace mortal. "Take it to Bessie's grandfather,"' 
suggests a good fairy, and so we did. 

Close by the head-waters of the Susquehanna, the lit- 
tle basin that incloses Otsego lake holds also the hill-girt 
village of Cherry Valley, — 

" Somewhat hack from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned countrv-seat," 

tJiat one would think Longfellow must have had in view 
when he wrote "the Old Clock on the Stairs;" and on 
Saturday, for the sake of a revered kinsman of ninety- 
one years, we found ourselves riding up the maple 
and willow avenue that leads to this "old-fashioned 
country-seat" known as Willow Hill, The quaint 
old mansion, built in English style ; its atmosphere 
of In-gones; its ancient furnishings just as they were 
forty -seven years ago, all redolent of the associa- 
tions of that long period ; its courtly little formalities, 
its jirodigal hospitality. — all unrolled themselves before 
us like a dream of de2)arted days. No wonder that 
grandchildren and great-grandcliildren succumb to the 
subtile fascination of the place, and hasten from near 
and far the moment vacation emancipates from school 
or l)usiness. Bric-a-brac hunters and the victims of the 
last fashionable craze for old things would go wild witii 
deliglit in this house; over its window draperies of scar- 
let and aml)er l)rocatel. edo-ed with funnv, stiff little 



GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE. '2:)?> 

tasseled fring-es, toned down witli enibroidercd mn.slin 
beneath, and tlie whole depending from a cornice, scarce 
tarnished by a half century of service ; its oddly carved 
chairs and tables, its imposing bed-hangings and solemn 
old clocks ; its seven different sets and remnants of fine 
old china; and would pay fabulons sums, perhaps, for 
some body else's grandfather's spinning-wheel and things, 
only to fling them aside for the next popular folly ; but 
the present possessors of these household gods value them 
most for the memories which link them with their past. 
But what impresses a stranger is the ex((uisite tender- 
ness and veneration manifested by all the young people 
for Grandfather. It was a thing of such sjiontaneity 
and naturalness, of such graceful unconsciousness, that 
in these days, when it seems as if the bump of reverence 
had caved in on the head of Young America, it was 
most unique and beautiful. Grandfather's eye is still 
bright and his step tolerably firm, but his sense of hear- 
ing is a trifle dulled. With instinctive refinement lie 
never asked what was being talked about. But a young 
girl, good as she was high-bred and beautiful, would at- 
tentively listen to what the new-comers said, and tlicn 
with her arm over the patriarch's shoulder, in a high, 
sweet clear key, would begin — "Grandfather, she says,'' 
— and so rehearse the whole story. Or, if she sat apart 
from him, and the narrator nearer, she would say, 
"Will you please tell it so Grandfather will hear? 
He 'fZlike that." So witli the voune- gentlemen. There 



2.") 4 GRAyDFArilERS HOUSE. 

WHS tlie utmost deference and care, witli perfect un- 
alfectediiess, that the dear ohl man should follow the 
conversation. When the boys, grand young fellows of 
twenty-five or so, waxed warm in discussion. Grandfather 
was referee and umpire, and his decision was accepted as 
final. I have never seen one of his great age who was 
so tlioroughly abreast of the times in matters religious, 
social and political — due both to his own remarkably - 
preserved mental and l)odily vision, and to the loving 
com})anion8h i}) of cliildren and grandchildren, and no end 
of ever welcome visitors. Even in the New York walk- 
ing match he had his preference as to who should win. 
On Sunday when apprised that the horses wait, we 
whisper to our senior traveling companion hither, 
''Why, til is is n"t the carriage tliat came for us to the 
station." and are told, sotto voce, "0 no, this is another 
relic ; the identical vehicle that fifty years ago used to 
bring the family to visit Massachusetts and Connecticut 
cousins. I remember it well, long before the days of 
steam and rail." As near as we can guess, it is the early 
style of the ponderous English barouche. Every vestige 
of color gone from the npholsterings, but its substantial 
comfort gives i)romise still, like the Deacon's 

" Wonderful oue boss shay, 
To run u hundred years to a day." 

It only wants a tongue to tell famous tales of its pristine 
glory, when it gathered to its embrasure the happy 



GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE. 255 

family and with liiimpLTs of provisions for two or tliree 
days of gypsy life stored in its eavernons de})ths. it 
bowled away from the Empire State home to old New 
Eugland, over mountains and valleys and streams, until 
its welcome burden was deposited at the ancestral Con- 
necticut farm. 

Any other than the dignified high-church Episcopal 
service of that day in the village sanctuary, would have 
been out of harmony with the spirit of the place and 
time. Then there was thf great Sunday dinner, when 
the table was resplendent in its heir-loom of gorgeous 
old pink and gold china, and joyful with the faces of 
four generations around the ample board, who coming to 
church from a radius of six miles, stop to dinner with 
father. That venerable man in the midst of his child- 
ren's children made one think of the •'righteous that 
shall grow like the cedar in Lebanon, and shall bring- 
forth fruit in old age." The very domestics, tried and 
faithful, some of them with eighteen years of service, 
beam kindly on the scene, and the green parrot in the 
conservatory looks through the window and screams, 
''Father, father," with a comical air of interest and ap- 
preciation. Something of old school etiquette clings to 
the customs of the household. Always when summoned 
to the living-room, the family assemble in the u})per 
hall, — which, curiously enough, is the favorite living- 
room, with its spacious proportions, its couches and rugs 
and invalid chairs and portraits with queer customs of 



25H GRANDFATHERS HOUSE. 

former times — and here Grandfather give.s liis arm to 
some yonng lady, the yonng gentlemen take charge of 
the oldest ladies. Flossie crooks her dim})led elbow to 
Auntie, and we descend in some state. Arrived at the 
table, if Grandfather's partner is not versed in the ways 
of the house, Flossie fastens his napkin around his neck, 
likely as not bestows a kiss or love pat, and slips to her 
seat by the time the aged head is bent to ask tlie blessing. 
Presently all is activity, and we are so busy in appro- 
priating the bounties of sheep-cote and duck-i)ond and 
harvest-Held, and in following the flashes of repartee and 
humor that sparkle all about, that a fair, square, com- 
prehensive stare has hardly been given to the scene: 
when lo I in a moment's lull, we spy — promoted to 
honor at the to}) of the center fruit-dish — Johnnie's 
pear! When duly admired, the unit is divided — (that 
is the pedagogic plirase) into as many fractions as there 
are mouths around the board, for Grandfather all his 
life has practiced sharing his good things with other 
people. When next week in scliool the fate of the big- 
pear is related, Johnnie Eichmond's bonnie brown eyes 
are luminous as stars, and the wee i)ale face turns red as 
his hair, as it drops on his desk in pleased confusion ; 
under cover of which the teacher insinuates an '' Oral 
Lesson" on the duty and beauty of devotion to age and 
respect to superiors. Pills of moral instruction must l)e 
sugar-coated with narrative. "Sowing on rock "you 
feel when contemplating the motley audience, where one 



OBANDFATHER'S HOUSE. L^oT 

may he a.s higii-miiidcd luid pure in thought as he is neat 
in person — ^not always tlie case; and another, to whom 
has been preaelied vainly the beneficent gospel of soap 
and water, is more unkempt and chaotic within than 
witbout: and where tlie many ai'e proiie to acknowledge no 
authority higher than their own — any thing l)nt sweet 
— Avills ; and to whom the words, ""in honor, preferring 
one another." are vague and meaningless. But you take 
heart again when kindly reminded that ■'even rock disin- 
tegrates*" witli thi' la})st' of time, and in the strange evo- 
lutions of nature that which is inanimate and inorganic 
changes into the animate and oi'iianic : so who knows but 
that the morally weakest hnnbkin in the fold may catch 
a glimpse of ••whatsoever things are lovely." the ••stony 
ground whei'c there is not much depth of earth " may 
imconsciously get a i^eed into its ungenial bosom that 
shall one day yield fruitage of at least thirty-fold ? 
(3[ichael Angelo's angel certainly there.) 

Tlie wall of one side of the lower ludl of Grandfather's 
house is (me continuous painting, and the opposite wall 
is a companion scene, undisturbed by frescoer or 2)aper- 
hanger now for forty- seven years. They seem to be 
Greek or Roman architectural ruins that are represented ; 
for here are elaborate Corinthian columns and simpler 
Doric pillars, together with such vegetation as is found 
in the Orient, and seas where lazy barges lie. and foreign- 
habited figures on the shore. 

The house stands on historic o-round. Here the fam- 



258 OBANDPATIIER'S HOUSE. 

ily of Col. Wells, of e'even persons, one only escaping, 
were murdered by the Indians at the time of the Cherry 
Valley massacre in 1778. The town, then the first white 
settlement west of Albany, rendered weak by the absence 
of its men in the War of Independence, was easily be- 
trayed by a tory named Butler into the hands of the 
celebrated Seneca half-breed, Joseph Brant, On the 
side-hill in the rear of Grandfather's house, there was 
then (as now) a tiny house where lived tlie Clydes, a family 
of Scotch Covenanters. Mrs, Clyde saw the Indians com- 
ing over the wooded mountain, and, seizing her baby, ran 
into the forest, crawled into a hollow log, and stuffed 
her apron into the baby's mouth. Thus she escaped, 
although the butt end of Brant's gun trailed over her 
log. The rest of her family were murdered. Next, the 
savages came to the Wells place. Jane Wells, a beautiful 
girl of eighteen, tied a few steps to where now stands 
the well-house, and was overtaken by Brant. On her 
knees she begged piteously for her life, and the savage 
for a moment seemed to waver, but presently drew his 
scalping-knife and made an end of her petition. The 
night came on. cold and stormy. A little girl of twelve, 
clad in a frock of *'calamink"' (colonial, "calamanco" — 
Webster,) escaping with her brother of four, hid under her 
petticoat, was discovered and driven with other captives 
to the Indian encampment. As the scouts came in, she 
had the liorror of seeing one redskin hold up for admi- 
ration a very beautiful scalp, which he was cleaning from 



GRANDFATHERS HOUSE. 259 

gore by drawing it through his lingers. She was now 
tortured witli the conviction that her mother was mur- 
dered, supposing no other woman in the village had hair 
of that color and extraordinary length. But it was the 
scalp of poor Jane Wells, and the little girl and brother 
and mother were afterwards safely restored to each other. 
Perhaps the cliild's senses were sharpened by terror and 
by the hope of escape, for she saw through the disguise 
of one of her captors, and knew him for a white man 
who had worked for her father. \Yhen the camp was 
still for the night, she crept cautiously to him, and im- 
plored him to helj) her and her little brother to escape. 
He feigned ignorance, but she adjured him, by the bread 
he had eaten at her father's taljle and the kindness he 
had received at the same hands, that he should aid them 
in one desperate chance for life, and he finally con- 
sented. Another tale is told of a woman and four chil- 
dren, wlio escaped by hiding under the snow among some 
logs. 

Last year was the one hundredth anniversary of this 
massacre, and the citizens determined to call home the 
sons and daughters of the town, and celebrate it by un- 
veiling a statue to the fallen soldiers of the late war, and 
by public sj)eeches, dinner and other demonstrations. 
Here at Willow Hill, the descendants of the one Wells 
that escaped were to be guests, and a consultation was 
held as to what should be the character of the home 
celebration ; whether it should be made a doleful or a 



2 (i ( I GRA ND PA TITER S 110 1 rsE. 

C'lieerful occasion. Leaniiiiii'. by a little stratei;v, that 
the latter would l)est ])lease their visitors, and well know- 
ing the love of farce ;ind fun in at least one of the ex- 
pected ])arty. they planned accordingly. Old and young- 
equipped themselves as first-class warriors of the Mohawk 
and Seneca- comple>:ion. Tomahawks and scalping- 
knives. blankets, wampum, war-p.unt and feathers made 
them sufficiently hideous. Then, when the carriage had 
been sent to the station, they disjjosed themselves in am- 
bush amongst thi' shi-ul)bery and behind the trees of the 
yard and avenue. Soon as the horses were seen return- 
ing, — 

" O, the wild cliargc tlicy made ! " 

With the most approved wai'-whoo|)s and much extrava- 
gant brandishing of steel, our mock Indians welcomed 
to Willow Hill the descendants of its first pro})rietor, 
and, such was their delight at this novel reception, that 
they coni[)elled the whole scene to be re-enacted for them 
later in the day. 

It is useless to try to describe the charms of this old 
place. — the rollicking, riotous, luxuriaiu-e of its great 
orchards and gardens: its farm-house hard by: and a 
dairy, with a herd of f(U'ty haiulsome Jerseys and Dur- 
hams, (uie of which cost four hundred dollars, and all of 
which furnish the so-called "gilt-edged" butter for the 
metroi)olis. 

Seen from the balcony, what grotes(pie pictures the 



GRANDFATHERS HOUSE. L>(il 

mooulight makes all down the valley. — what fantastic, 
tricks the imagination plays I This is the fortress of 
some old feudal lord. The ridge of monntain in the 
rear is the castle wall. The narrow, deep brook below 
is the moat ; and the odd, rustic arch across it. in the 
right foreground, is the draw-bridge. 'I'he old man's 
sanctum is the dungeon-kee}). The countless comers 
and goers of the household are the knights and ladies. 
The men-servants and the maid-servants are the stanch 
•• retainers." But the scene shifts. Weird and uncanny 
in the moonlight, on the hills and in the valley to the 
left, we see the hop-poles stacked conically for the sea- 
son, just like a straggling camp of brown tents, that 
need only curling smoke from their tops to stimulate 
with startling effect the wigwams of the aborigines. 
Ugh I We are chilled with superstitious thrill, as if the 
crafty red men were sknlkiiigin the shadows, and hastily 
we descend to the light and cheer of the stately old 
[)arlor. 

Here of a Sunday evening, a new and sweeter signifi- 
cance the old hymns seemed to have, sung by extreme 
age. middle life, youth and childhood ; with Bessie 
tinkling an accom])aniint'nt out of the antique little 
])iano ; Xed's face blown out of its grave, fine cast, by his 
flute ; Flossie, bewitching rosebud of a girl, near enough 
to cover her beloved ( i i-andfather's hand as it rests on the 
arm of his chair, with her own warm little palm : and 
the sweet old face of (ii-andmothei' haloed with a muslin 



2H2 GRANDFATHERS HOUSE. 

frill, looking down from the wall, — we trust looking 
down from Paradise. 

Hut on another night, we found that age has its mirth- 
ful as well as serious moods. For at a family frolic at 
the old man's son's, a half a mile distant, Avhere stringed 
instruments led by the inspiring violin provoked danc- 
ing and general jollity, this veteran of ninety-one. with 
a little coaxing, showed the young folks how they " took 
steps" in days of lang syne. No languid walking 
through the figures, but with pet Flossie for his partner 
7iinety-one and seventeen capped the climax as the most 
"stunning" couple on the Hoor. (grandfather is a 
capital story-teller, too. In the war of 181:i, he was a 
commissary of subsistence for the soldiers. Later he 
made the first calico prints ever manufactured in this 
country. Explained how. when a hoy of twelve, he 
watched an old woman in SuHield. C't.. spin yarn from 
a spindle, and gathering ideas from her, in time digested 
and nuitured them until they took sha[)e in his own 
memory. The story of his nuidder dyes, and l)lock- 
prints, the cleaning of raw cotton from the seeds before 
the invention of the gin, — were full of interest and in- 
struction. He sent the first cheese that ever went from 
this country to F^ngland. (Irandfather whiled away for 
us many delightful houi's with tales of other days. 
Willow Hill can need no tribute from oui- humble quill, 
since its praises were more fitly told some years ago by 
an earlier guest. — ^Irs. H. B. Stowe. 



GRANDFATHERS HOUSE. 



^iVA 



And now vacation wane-'. Sadness settles on the old 
house as the girls i)ack t'oi- N'assar. the boys to return to 
the harness of business and college life, and the guests 
to their home vocations. And when next we see dear 
venerable Grandfather, it may be no longer in the flesh, 
but where the si)irit in Klysian rields has found the 
fountain of imnu)rtal youth. 

lS7fi. 




S Wofd foi^ tl)e Pkgfki]. 



J DREAMED a sad and ti'ouhlcd (li'eain. 

On waters wide 1 sailed. 
For days and days, till ovei'liead 

Tlie constellations paled. 
And stars unknown to oni' lone way 

Their lambent lustre lent : 
The JSoutliern Cross J saw. and knew 

We left the Oecidcnt. 

And still we sailed : ]\ieitie"s wa\e 

(Jrew warm l)eneath our prow. 
And phos])horeseent insect tii'e 

l^layed. sparklin^' round the how; 
I sniffed Molucca's groves of s]iice : 

And still our course was l)ent 
Toward lands that seem almost a myth- 

The fahled Orient. 

At last we gained fai' India's shore. 
And u]) her sacred stream. 



A WORD FOR THE PAGAN. 2()5 

Sti-angi' tropic scenes on eitlier luind. 

We Hoated in my di-eani : 
Tall phuuy palms and banyan trees 

"Pheir pennons green unfurled. 
In Brahmapootra's wondrous vales — 

The li-arden of the world. 

And here the J)eccau"s bosom bore 

(Tolconda's treasures rare ; 
And gorgeous flowers, unknown l)efore 

Bloomed marvelously fair ; 
From earliest ages coveted 

V>\ nations of the West. 
Yet. 'mid her lavish opulence. 

Sad India sits un])lest : 

For woman is a thing accursed ; 

l)ark-l)rowed and dusky-eyed, 
1 saw her at her idol shrines. 

And (ianges' wave beside; 
The verv babe upon her breast. 

In su])erstition"s zeal. 
She flung to hungi-y crocodiles. 

As if her heart were steel. 

I saw the martyred myriads 

Of mothers, anguish riven. 
In nameless rites idohitrous. 



268 .-1 WORD FOR THE PAGAN 

Seek thus to purchase lieaven ; 
Through prison-like Zeiuma walls 

Came woman's plaintive cry. 
Till all the perfumed Indian air 

Echoed her misery. 

0, Christian woman, bending low 

And late o'er fiction's page I 
(/an that imagined, sickly woe 

Thy sympathies engage, 
While tragedies unknown, unsung 

By histrionic art, 
Crush all the life and sweetness from 

Thy Hindoo sister's heart ? 

Rise, O thou highly favored one. 

And from thy hoarded pelf 
(rive lavishly I remembering 

That Jesus gave Himself ; 
And then in holy covenant 

Thy Christian vows renew. 
And ask obediently : " Lord, 

What wilt Thou have me do? 



My Woi'k. 



On('E. when I was a scliool girl, 

I luul a dream of fame ; 
I longed to V)e a painter. 

And win a deathless name. 
And so I studied fondly 

The lives of artists through. 
ITntil the dreaming student 

A wild entliusiast grew. 

Friends, at the childish folly 

Laughed, as at last do I : 
But then I vowed sincerely 

I "d do it, or I 'd die — 
So many a midnight found me 

Worshiping at the shrine 
Of old Italian Masters, 

Whose genius seemed divine. 

Sometimes I kept the vigil 

Till morn broke, soft and (Ik^wx 



'2(]H MY WORK. 

I'orina' o 'ei- lives of I\a])li;it'I. 

Titian, or C'imabiu'' : 
And tliiis. in stealthy frao-nients, 

I icleaned the witchino; storv 
Of all the Artist heroes 

Renowned in olden o-loi-v. 

I knew the tale of (iuido. 

And ^lic'hae! Angelo. 
Of Ijeonardo da Vinci. 

And great C'orreggio. 
The history of ancient 

And modern Art as well. 
Was to my high wrought fancy 

Sweeter than tongue can tell. 

Tui'uei'. and Church, aiul Landseer, 
, Rosa Bonheui'. Dore: 
Why should not 1 win laurels 

Of fame as well as they 'f 
And so the wild chimera 

Im])ossil)le. as sweet. 
With youth's untamed ambition, 

I chased with eager feet. 

Poor? Ves indeed I knew it. 

Artists were always i)oor I 
J3ut all (lolconda's treasure 



MY WORK. '260 

Could not my heart allure. 
And poverty was welcdine. 

Though cruel as the grave. 
And sharp and sore and grinding — 

I M he her al)jeet slave, — 

Tf after life's long struggle. 

In dying. I might claim 
Bv reason of tnu' jiictufc 

liight to a deathless name. 
So, fostering wildest fancies — 

Doomed to expire full soon. 
My little, weak, child-fingers 

Filled many a hrave carto()n. 

I Imrlesqued gouty grand [)as. 

Ami every neighhor's hal)y. 
Till much astonished mothei's 

-ludged \nv a gx'uius — mayhe I 
At l)oardi]ig school I frescoed 

My chamber walls so hare. 
And then did penance i-oumlly 

On bi'ead and watei- fare. 

Years passed — an eai'uest wonuui 

The school girl grew at length. 
Hut that ahsorbing i)assion 

\\\\i streno-thcned with mv strength. 



1^70 MY WOliK. 

And then — Unfathomed Wisdom 
Looked ou my zeal and pride, ' 

And whispering — "Child, aim higher,' 
Eeversed my life's whole tide. 

A short, sharp strife — then humbly 

I kissed the Hand divine. 
And brokenly made answer : 
" Lord, not my will but Thine." 
Now, to a public school-room 

My earthly mission led. 
With coward soul a-tremble. 
And half uncertain tread. 

Up spake a voice in chiding, 
" It is the task you sought, 
And nowhere for the Master 
Can grander work be wrought. 

"Narrow, obscure, unvalued. 

Except as God shall know. 
The school-room hence becometh 

Your Artist studio, 
Immortal minds your canvas. 

And deathless soids as well ; 
Here jDaint ! but know you 're j^tiiuting 

For heaven — or for hell. 



MY WORK. 271 

The cross of Christ your easel, 

There hallow each design ; 
Your palette and its colors 

Draw from the Book divine. 
And for unfading pigments 

Let Truth your background be. 
Then, Principles, of Virtue 

Lay on religiously. 

''The Science, and the Learning, 

And Art of all the schools, 
Within your power of using. 

Shall further be your tools. 
Materials from all ages 

Choose ye with loving pains, 
Then '* mix," with dextrous judgment, 

As Reynolds did — " loith brains." 

" You sighed to leave one picture 
Worthy to outlive thee. 
Here you shall paint a thousand 
For immortality." 

The speaker ceased — but left behind 

An influence sweet and pure, 
Which permeated all my toils. 

And shall while toils endure. 
No lonsrer in half doubtinsr mood 



272 



J/F WORK. 



I turn me to my task. 
Heuven's blessing, and a conscience clean. 

The only boon I ask. 
The i)ublic may depreciate. 

Belittle, and al)use. 
Who chooses leacMng for her work. 

(Irini poverty must choose. 
Deliberately must count the cost. 

Then, if she can. elect 
That parents, school-ljoards. othcers 

Shall analyze, dissect — 

That moneyed kin!j,s shall vote her worth 

A kitchen scullion's i)ay I 
Who gives the brsf ycarx of Tier life 

All lavishly away. 
To mould tln'ir cliUdrmi. that she may 

In vast Eternity. 
Say, "Here am I. thy servant. Lord. 

AVith them thou sjavest me." 




Siii)tlciY S^l|Ool ¥ecidl\iiig 



FOR THE YOUNGER SCHOLARS. 



.Sir Philii' Sydney once saiil to a })oot : " Look into 
your own lieart. antl write."" So perhaps the best ex- 
ordium that can be made in an essay on Teach ing is. 
Look into your own lieart. and teacli I 

Teaching of the Infant Class is the exalted duty as- 
signed us to-day, and if we let fall any hint that is worth 
your remembrance, please attribute it to the Superinten- 
dent of Trinity Sunday School, to whose kind sugges- 
tions we are indebted for the thoughts we have now to 
offer. 

We say exalted duty, not only because public senti- 
ment is coming to demand the best devotion, the largest 
talent and the widest culture for primary leai'ners, both 
secular and religious, but because our own convictions 
acknowledge the fitness of this demand. The half- 
grown child has learned to help himself and exercise his 
own efforts. He begins to have some judgment and dis- 
crimination in regard to the instruction afforded him. 
may accept or reject as his own sense of truth shall a^)- 
18 



274 TEACHINO THE YOUNGER PEOPLE. 

l^rove or disprove ; but the little cliild has none of this 
elective power in regard to morals and religion ; his little 
mind is 07ily receptive, can not tell wheat from chaff, 
nor truth from error. Therefore, give the little ones 
the Jjest teacheis. 

The instruction of the Infant Class is Primary in two 
senses. First, it is oi primary importance. It is a well- 
known fact, that, during tlie first ten years of life, the 
mind learns more than during any other ten years of its 
existence ; and the knowledge acquired during these 
first ten years lias far greater influence upon character 
and destiny, than that acquired in any after period. 
Voltaire said that if he could have the whole control of 
any child during its first five years, he would so un- 
alterably fix its principles that no after influence should 
counteract his work ! Who knows but that his own in- 
fidel death was attributable to his very early indoctrina- 
tion into the sceptical literature of the day ? How im- 
portant, then, that the little ones have the best teachers ! 

Again, the instruction of the Infant Class is primary, 
inasmuch as it is 'preparatory for mature instruction, 
and it begins at the first and lowest stage of mental de- 
velopment. The mind upon which the teacher is now to 
act is pure, innocent and simi^le, — a fair, clean page 
from the hand of its Great Author. What and how 
shall the teacher write on this white, unsullied page ? 
'^ Love first, and then you may do what 3-ou will!" 
savs Augustine. 



TEACHINO THE TOUKGER PEOPLE. 275 

Consecration, then, seems the first and most impera- 
tive requisite in the teacher ; — supreme love to God, and 
in a hirge degree that genius for "maternity of souls," 
as some one has said, that characterizes many noble 
Christian women. With such consecration, the teaclier 
may then survey her field. She sees several score of 
restless, lively, inquisitive little " demi-semi-quavers " of 
hiinianiiy ; — the dainty pets from homes of anluence 
and luxury, and the children of humble poverty, in gar- 
ments scant and coarse ; and in every one she recognizes 
a possible jewel for the Master, just as the sculptor, in 
the rough, unchiseled stone, sees an angel that he is 
sent to liberate. '• How shall I teach these young im- 
mortals,'' asks the teacher, " A, B, C of sacred things? 
How lead these tottering lambs to the Good Shepherd ?" 
And so, second only to consecration, we would write 

Adaptation, as an important requisite. The- teacher 
must be able to place herself in the condition of her lit- 
tle learners. She must go back in memory, and try to 
recall the weakness and dimness of her own mental 
dawn, and the small sphere of thought of her own in- 
fantile days. 

She must cultivate her imagination, and her sympa- 
thetic emotions, and so learn to fit her instructions to 
the capacity of her pupils. S]ie need not be childish, 
nor in any sense let herself down, in thus identifying 
herself with the feelings and sentiments of her little 
flock ; but she must needs be childlike, and present her 



2T<> rEACIlIXG THE YOUyGEE PEOPLE. 

tlioiiglits in languuge tliat sliall he clianieterized hy 
severe simplicity. We are I'eniiiuled of a good iniiiister, 
who hegan his address to ;i Sahl)atli School in this wise : 
"My little cliildren, the Hil)le is I'viivtnithi a (lidactic 
Ixiol-!" The teaclier who has tact aiul the instinct ot* 
adaptation will not tidk in that style to "little r/n'l- 
dren.'' She will remenihei' that the cliihrs vocahularv 
is small : his intellect is small : his knowledge, his judg- 
ment, his ability to receive instruction, all are small, and 
she must adapt hei'self to all these coiulitions. 

lint the grandest truth may i)e uiade level with the 
capacities of the Infant Class, if the teacher has this 
power of insight as to theii' needs, and of adaptability 
to those needs: if she ki\ows how to ■•put herself in 
their place." and especially, if she habitually sits at the 
feet of the (ireat Teachei-. lunnble. simple, and teach- 
able as a little child. By practice and association with 
her cliai'ge, she will leai'ii to be disci'iminating in child- 
(diaracter. She will leaiMi where to encourage ;ind draw 
ont the sensitive and timid, where to I'esti'ain with firm- 
ness and decision the over-hold, and where to arouse with 
her own vigor and energy the dull aiul listless. All in her 
class have many things in common : but just as no two 
faces are exactly alike, so no two minds are alike: and 
every child has some distinctive, iiulividual trait, that 
makes him (juite unlike every other child. An in- 
timate acquaintance with these traits, and a clear 
understanding of each child's peculiarities, will gi-eatly 



TEACUiyG THE YOVyUEE PEOPLE 277 

:ii(l the teaclier in Jicr power ol' udaiitiition. and won- 
derfully increase her faculty of comniunicatiuii" knowl- 
edge. If she thus carefully and keenly observes, 
and makes a separate study of human nature in each 
individual, (which she can do only when the class 
is iiumerifally small, and her time largely at her 
own command.) she will he prevented from firing over 
tiieir heads, or. in homely Western phrase, ■'the fodder 
will not be put too high in the rack for the lambs to 
reach." She will cinisfdnthj n'nwmhcr that she is act- 
ing u]>ou minds that are extremely limited, and that 
have but few ideas: and. by this constant remembrance, 
she will come to have a constantly augmenting power of 
transferring into these little minds what exists in her 
own. We insist, then, that this aptness to teach may 
be increased l)y cultivation and practice : but. it must be 
admitted that it is largely a gift also, and the true 
teacher, like the }»oet. is •• born, not made." 
Another im]X)rtant element of success is 
Enthusiasm. The teacher must love her work. A 
man may dig a ditch, and a woman may sweep a floor 
without putting a ///-m/ deal of enthusiasm into the act. 
But the teacher's work is too vital to admit of mere 
mechanical efforts. While she paints on the immortal 
canvas of mind, she must mix Jier colors, not •' with 
brains." only, as did Sir Joshua Reynolds, but with licart 
and sail I. 

^Vhat thoughts can inspire her with this enthusiastic 



278 TEACHING THE YOUNGER PEOPLE. 

love for her vocation ? We answer, a profound sense of 
her responsibility to God. There are moments when she 
will be opi)ressed and saddened and dismayed when she 
contemplates her task. But her courage will come 
again ; she will exult, with the joy and gratitude of an 
unworthy vassal who has received some fadeless honor 
from his king. Her King has dared trust her to lay a 
moulding hand upon the plastic clay, that shall harden 
into marble with her imprint upon it. 

She is shaping character for the future men and 
women that in these babes exist only as grand, though 
distant, possibilities. Neither will her influence stop 
here. But the truths she imparts, will, by these young 
disciples, be imparted one day to their children, and 
they in turn shall teach the same principles to the chil- 
dren of a yet later generation ; and she will thus be liv- 
ing, in her influence, long after the heart that felt and 
the brain that tliought, have crumbled back to dust. 

Here, then, in the fact of her responsibility, and in 
the inspiring thought of a pure and deathless influence, 
she may kindle the flame of a glowing enthusiasm in 
her work. Another needful (puilification is 

Versatility. The teacher must be able to give variety 
to the exercises. Maps and blackboards are necessities, 
and she may let individuals trace routes, or indicate 
localities, on the maps, and may herself make free use of 
the blackboard. Singing maybe interspersed often, and 
frequent changes of position be allowed. 



TEACHING THE YOUNGER PEOPLE. 279 

A long period of enforced quiet is an unreasonable 
demand on young children, and a thwarting of Xature's 
designs. Slie has made them frisky as colts, and frolic- 
some as kittens. The proportion of brain and nervous 
system is larger than the other bodily organs in early 
life, and the activity of childhood is involuntary as the 
breath. It is insufferably irksome for many adults to 
sit still for an hour ; liow much more so for the Infant 
Class ! 

Again, much depends upon the manner in which the 
teacher imparts, and she will need to study 

Methods. Often she must employ tlie Catechetical 
style, since very little fixedness of tliought can be ex- 
pected of young children, and the youngest will only be 
able to respond in monosyllables. 

Often she must introduce simple Illustration and 
Figure. For children get dim and erroneous notions 
about nuiny things, wiiere, with visible illustrations, they 
might get vivid and correct itleas at a glance. Power to 
simplify in this way will make her lessons attractive and 
easy to hold, and will be a source of strength. She may 
also employ 

Anecdote to i)oint hei- instructions. Wlio does not 
know a child's delight in stories, even in stale and oft- 
told tales ? And often some little story will clnich the 
truth in a child's mind, since, by the law of association, 
his recollection of the story suggests tlie principle 
taught. 



280 TEACHING THE YOUNGER PEOPLE. 

The teacher may also employ tlie DesiTiptive style. 
Let her make u word picture of her lesson, and then ask 
some child, in whom perhaps, language is larger than in 
the others, to rehearse the same scene. Possibly she will 
find that he has a more attentive audience than herself I 
And it is a ])rofitable exercise in teaching the child ex- 
actness of statement. To these babes only a little can 
be taught at a time, but it is desirable that the lessons 
have continuity from Sunday to Sunday, and care must 
be taken that all the instruction he thoroughly evangeli- 
(!al, and pervaded by a spirit of reverence and sacredness. 

Children are keen observers; and any thing about the 
teacher that distracts their minds from tlui lesson should 
be laid aside. A story is told of a lady who lal)ored in 
vain to secure the attention of ojie of iier girls, until 
she divested her finger of a diamond ring. Its fascinat- 
ing glitter was fatal to the good she would do, and she 
had the good sense to omit it from her Sabbath toilet. 

Visiting the children in their iiomes, frieiully ac- 
quaintance and sympathy with their parents, are valua- 
ble auxiliaries to success, l^y this means greater interest 
may be awakened, and better preparation secured for the 
lessons. It takes time, but is a profital)le investment of 
the time. 

Not live minutes' walk from this })lace there stands a 
handsome pile of architecture ; substantial, commodious 
and enduring, as brick and iron with the skill of man 
can make. But some remember that long before a brick 



TEACHING THE YOUNG Eli PEOPLE. 281 

was laid, there were weary toilers and massive enginery 
busy under-ground, driving piles, day after day, week 
after week, onli/ driving piles. Xow and then, some 
curious passer-by paused a second to watch this work 
beneath the surface, and thoughtfully ponder its signfi- 
cance. In good time the superstructure rose steadily to 
completion, beautiful, secure and strong. So the Pri- 
mary Teacher is building a foundation on which others, 
in the Intermediate and Adult Departments, are to erect 
a building ; and the foundation, although not the most 
showy, is the most im})ortant part of the mental, as of 
the material, structure. Early impressions are the moi^t 
lasting, early instructions most certain, in their results. 
Teaching of the Infant Class may seem to some an 
insigniticant work. Like the patient delver in a coal- 
mine, like the pearl diver in Indian seas, the teacher is 
comparatively out of sight, working beneath the surface 
unobserved, unappreciated of men. But in days to 
come, when the tempest of life begins to thicken about 
these little ones, hei' words shall fructify at last, in 
warmtii and comfort and salvation ; her precept and ex- 
ample shall send them searching with eager, aching 
hearts for the Pearl of great price ; her labor shall not 
be in vain in the Lord. 



Written by request for Mr. Barrows' Farewell Reception. 



A OHEERLY souii' is ill the air. 

The dear auld 'I'utor's name I 
It echoes blithely everywhere. 
His bairnies calling hame, 

Now ilka chiel wi' Insty lung 

Shout an 1(1 lang syne ! 
Auld voices blending wi' the young 
In auld lang syne. 

That kindly, wise, paternal rule 

There willna one forget 
Who 's kenned the World's severer school. 
Where sterner tasks are set. 

Then prithee, tho' your lij)s have quaffed 

Life's sweet and bitter wine, 
Where found they ever purer draught 
Than joys of auld lang syne ? 



LANG SYNE. 288 

Ye 've journeyed lang, ye laddies braw, 

And lassies once sae fair, 
Till now some tell-tale flecks of snaw 
Glint in your own bright hair ; 

While Maister's cheek is ruddy still 

Wi' bonnie, wintry bloom, 
Tho' mony a bairn 's by Heaven's will, 
Paled early for the tomb. 

Ah, when our senses Death shall steal. 

May we the summons dread 
As little as a tired chiel 
Its welcome trundle-bed ; 

And taught and teacher gather yon. 

Where joys ne'er decline, 
And all regretful thochts are gone 
For auld lang syne. 

1S85. 



S G[lkr|de at tl\e Claims Book. 



Ix a little Koiiiaii ])r<)vii\cf. cciitui-ies ago. 
\\'liile the silent stars ke])t vi,u-il over all below. 
There was l)oni an infant, of a maiden mother mild, 
And a humble manner cradled ITim.tlie HolyC^hild. 

W ondi'ous living;-, wondrous dyiiiii'. lie. the (Jod- 

man. showed ; 
ITeaven its crowninu' liift to inoi'tals thus in Him 

bestowed. 
But e'er tliat last night of horrors lowei'ed. with its 

o'loom. 
1 recall Him. with His brethi-en. in '•the u[)])er 

I'oom." 

And 1 fancy His disciples listened, with hushed 

breath, 
To the mournful words He uttered of His coming 

death ; 



A GLANCE AT THE CLASS BOOK. L><Sr) 

And tlieii' lieavts were sti'anuely heiivv, for thev 

could not know 
Tliat to 118 a pledge of ransom was His weight of 

woe. 

Tiins. through the slow-iiiarching ages. 

Down, down to tlie present time. 
The members of that ui)pei- cliamber 

Hold memories sweet aiul sublime. 
And methinks there are still apartments. 

And still there are ])rivileged walls. 
\\'here the voice of the Saviour echoes. 

Where the foot of the Master falls. 

We see Ilini not in the door-way ; 

For our Heavenly (iuest no chair 
We set in the midst, yet somehow 

We know that .Jesus is there: 
We hear no words benignant: 

We look not into His face: 
Yet, touched witli an awe. we whis})er. 
"This is a heavenly |)lace.'' 

''JMs the olden Methodist cluss-room — 

Term of signiticance sweet : 
To remember its joys exalted. 

Dear comrades, to-niijht we meet. 



286 A GLANCE AT THE CLASS BOOK. 

We meet to rehearse His mercies, 
And the tale of the past unfold. 

And give to the Lord the glory. 

For to-night we are ten years old! 

All unrevealed lay the future, 

Its secrets we did not know, 
When first, in an "upper chamber," 

W^e gathered ten years ago ; 
And some that we met that evening. 

Our fairest and tenderest flowers, 
By the Gardener's hand are transplanted 

To more genial and heavenly bowers. 

One tender l;)ud there was gathered. 

The child of many a prayer ; 
But we know in the Saviour's bosom 

He blossoms divinely fair ; 
Too cold our soil for his culture, 

Too bitter the storms that destroy. 
In Elysian fields we shall find him, 

Our beautiful, bright Willie boy. 

And sweet Maggie Kenyon's red roses 
Grew pale and })ure as the snow, 

And our hearts were smitten with sorrow 
When we knew that Maggie must go ; 



A GLANCE AT THE CLASS BOOK. 287 

"She will l)e at home up in heaven," 
The faithful class-leader said ; 
Can he say it as truly, sister. 

brother, when you, too. are dead ? 

And dear little Nettie Allen, 

1 think, over heaven's high walls. 
Undrowned by the music of seraphs, 

She caught her dead mother's calls 
And hastened with feet so eager, 

The darling, dutiful child. 
To follow, wherever it led her. 

That summons, so winning and mild. 

Brother Powell, the veteran hero, 

With his armor burnished and bright. 
Fell out of the ranks all bravely. 

He having •'fought a good fight." 
Sister Justin, the dear, aged pilgrim. 

Awaiting permission to "come," 
Calm, patient and jDeaceful and saintly. 

All joyful her spirit went home. 

Sister King, the fragile young mother, 
Like a bird on a bleak foreign strand. 

She pined and drooped for a season. 
Then soared to the far spirit-land. 



28S A GLANCE AT THE CLASS BOOK. 

(hu' iiioiv. Sister Biitfuni. has falien ; 

l^ut the long severed links of the chain. 
We know, by-aud-by. over yonder. 

Shall be reunited again. 

We have seen liow many a dear one. 

In the faith of oui- dear Lord has died I 
We have launched full numy anotliei- 

On the matrimonial tide I 
Like a Florentine piece of mosaic. 

Our life, with its shrine and its shade. 
"So many and checkered the changes. 
We have known in the last decade. 

They seeui to go filing i)ast me, 

'IMicse ])hantoins of l)y-gone years. 
And 1 look in their vanished faces, 

Tln'ough tender and fast flowing tears; 
Some thorns have been mixed with the roses 

Along the })ath we have trod ; 
Some gems have slipped from our fingers, 

Some flowers are under the sod. 

They were treasures, lent for a little, 
To lighten our toil and our pain ; 

And not very far in the future. 
r know we shall have them again. 



A GLANCE AT THE CLASS BOOK. 2S\) 

Ah. then, more joyfully backward 

We shall look on the path we *ve trod. 

As we number our treasures over. 
Up yon, in the kingdom of (lod. 




19 



OF THE NORTH MAIN STREET CLASS OF TRINITY 
CHURCH. 



What nils ns sill ? Wlien Methodists 
Their chisses are forsaking ? 

Yet never fail to crowd the lists 
At every merry-making ? 

We "ve time for kettle-drum, or rail. 

Or any fun and frolic — 
But speak of class — and faces all 

Grow long and melancholic I 

We 've grown so dull, that many a class 
Takes a prolonged vacation — ■ 

Until, alas I it 's come to pass 
We 're near anniliilation. 

But Atwood's — never dry nor sere I 
It blooms and thrives perennial. 

And once a year we '11 gather here 
Perhaps — until its centennial I 



THE TWENTY-FIRST ANNIVEB8ABT. 2V)1 

If not, we "11 nicike the inost of this, 

The twenty-first uiiuiversury. 
And celebnite the worth, the bliss 

Of class, the soul's kind nursery. 

And when, at last, Ik-yond we 've passed 

All peril of disaster. 
We '11 hope to meet, low at the feet 

Of Jesus, Lord and Master. 




KRIKNDLV WORDS 



TO THE MEMORY OF 



dlcii^k J. L(00ii|i^ 



Instructor, friend, your work is o'er, 
You who so lately walked our streets ; 

Your spirit, soon released, did soar 
To find above the heavenly seats. 

Ah I who most intimate did know 
The love and patience of tlie years 

In which you taught the mind to groM'. 
Prepared its flight for l)etter spheres ? 

Yours was the teacher's weai'y toil. 
To elevate the mind and soul, — 

Sometimes a sluggish mind, a soil 
All full of weeds without control. 

Ah I who can tell how much you 've doiu' 
To Christianize and build the State ? 



29 H TRIBUTE FROM A FRIEND. 

A base of granite, well l)eguii. 
You founded for the truly great. 

You were a friend in friendship's needs. 

Sweet sym})athy you freely lent. 
Your joy was surely the meed 

Of joy which you to others sent. 

We can not think your sojourn short. 

Although in mid-life borne away. 
You have too many blessings brought. 

And sing redemption's song to-day. 




IN MEMORIAM 



Clcii'k J. L(Ooir|i0 



Oxp: iiKire is ;i(l(U'(l to tlie list 

Of lioust'holds filled with aii^'uish : 

From home another loved one missed. 
Yet more sad hearts to languish. 

Hut, friends, amid your grief be still ; 

Vu)\v hund)ly to Onr Father's will. 

''V is lie can heal the aching luMrt. 

All crushed, and sad, and lonely; 
Can soften anguish, soothe the smart. 

And in his goodness, oidy. 
Does he afflict the ones his love 
Has given a hope of rest above. 

lie chastens whom he loves. Idlest thought 

That every i)ang that meets us 
By loving hamls is portioned out ; 
•2f> 



29S TRIBUTE FROM A FRIEND. 

So. while this promise greets us 
Of rest for those who love the Loi'd. 
We ti'iist, contented iti his word. 

While drinkiiio- of this hitter cup. 
Know. Jesiis. o'er her Ijcnding. 

Bore in his arms lier sjjirit up; 

To heaven her ste))s were tending. 

And she has reached a peaceful home. 

AN'here sin and sorrow can not come. 

Released from earthly toil and pain. 
Her joyful voice is ringing 

With angel bands, in glad refrain. 
The Saviour's praises singing. 

No sorrow clouds her radiant brow. 

No pain, no suffering meets her now. 

See. 'mid the ransomed throng in white. 
The loved one you are mourning; 

A harp of gold, a ci-own of light. 
Her seraph form adoi'ning. 

Your household on this earthly shore 

One less; in heaven, one angel more. 

And when, your own life sojourn o'er. 
Death's solemn summons meets vou. 



TRIBUTE FROM A FRIEND. 



299 



Her welcome to the .shining shore 

Will he the first that greets you : 
Love's severed, chain rejoined in heaven. 
Its links shall never more he riven. 

X. (4. J. 
July 10. 18SG. 




Ir\ ^enioi'ikni, 



Thou wcrt tired, and just stopped to rest 

I^y tlie way. 
There liroke o'er tliee a radiance so blest, 

Only a ray 
From God refracted. — 
But earth could not restrain tliee 
Nor loving ones detain thee 
From all tiie fullness of that life divine : 
And tliou. — the joy of entering in is tliine 

To-chiy. 

The Howers we low the best. 

They say. 
Are first to witlier, — ah, how blest 

AlwHV I 
If but to Heaven transplanted. 
And then so fondly cherished. 
Thou hast not rudely })erished. 

But in soul-communion 'niong those I'adiant l)owers 
Art living still, a gladder life than ours 

To-day. 
Hprimjfield, 1S86. \'. A. S. 



K#:^i; .•;.i^'j'-:, 



